Free War Is Language : 101 Short Works (9781937316044) by Nath Jones Page B

October 8, 2011;
February 12, 2011; October 7, 2011; September 6, 2011; March 27,
2011; May 24, 2011; July 17, 2011. Indecision grows more powerful
in its acquisition, rationalizing any means necessary as a mode of
conquering and ascension. No matter what there is a metallic
plastic superhero with disproportionate tits French inhaling in a
midnight blue solitude. The ember tip of her cigarette lights the
contours of her hand, her cheek, her nose, her breast, her
shoulders. She’s been working on her deltoids, her biceps, her
triceps, her lats. Devastation ensues. (Address victim/victor,
predator/prey, dominance/submission, acceptance/rejection, and the
rest of interpretive inflexibility here.) The metallic plastic
superhero hunches forward exhausted by exertion against
defeat.
    Her back curves slightly,
shoulders forward. No one would dare ask: What is she thinking? We’ll never
know. The bootleg copy of her adventure is spliced. Her thoughts
get lost in translation. Remember those animated
teach-kid-a-ma-things, Mr. Men and Little Miss? Like Kool-Aid
people. Remember? Well, there they are. Three of them. Blown way
out of proportion, climbing over buildings like Godzilla. They
stalk through their minimalist city finally ending up between a
riverfront and the bay. Blue. Red. Yellow. Primary and
smiling.
    Let them fill the sky. Is it an
objective goal to have to build something permanent when one is so
simply impermanent? Creative destruction is our, “This is how it
is. It’s natural. It’s okay.” They can say it with emotional appeal
or just statistics, whichever you prefer.
    I get it that we have varied ideas
about security and freedom, that we all feel our beliefs should
have a revelation. Good. Let them fill the sky. This time it’s a
flesh-burst sunset sky, not that cloud cover where the animated
shoulds conquer everything. I’m talking about a beach with thirty
feet of wet hardpack sands that reflect twilight. I get it. A man,
muscular as a matter of course, does footwork there with a soccer
ball. He is out of the way of crashing surf. But here's how it is:
he is barefoot. There’s no reef, not here. Fingerling distant
man-made things reach out from the beach, from the shore, into the
destructive breakers to say, “Hey. Slow down, why don’t
cha?”
    Silhouettes of five naked women pose
in the high grasses. Targets and arrows help direct sunlight and
perspective. The purple flowers of wild onions never bend even
though these five naked silhouettes are captured dancing: hands on
cocked hips, spinning hair, carelessly-tossed arms, a tight ass, a
high-heeled foot kicked up, boobs bending forward, chest out, back
arched, head up, feet crossed at the ankles, and the last woman
bent over grabbing her ankles to prove the point, to make sure it
is absolutely clear: there is no limit to the resources we’ll put
behind our conviction.
    Repeat after me: Every man is a
mother's son. There’s a basset hound in the backseat. Every life is
precious. A woman rests against her man. She’s spent, wet,
pleasured. Watch her trace the contours of her abs with the stem of
a red flower. But when it comes down to it, justice can prevail.
And did.
    As topics of conversation go WWII was
black-and-white. Like porn and highway budgets. You cannot put
people in ovens and call that a country. Satin constricts the
cleavage that spills out from under a borrowed fedora. That is
unacceptable or fine. But Vietnam, Afghanistan, Iraq? I don't know.
There’s a real discussion there.
    Look. Fuck deliberation and diplomacy.
I’m not involved in all that. I’m just talking about something to
say over dinner with a couple bottles of wine. Maybe you can beat
up on the Kurds, you know, just a little. One pole dancer with
fishnet sleeves plays chess with another in a tiger-striped string
bikini. Maybe you can bully each other with sectarian strife.
What's a lost life here and there? Here’s a sudsy pillow fight to
distract you.
    Who needs a