jarhead

as a babe i was never the tender one in the infancy of the developing footsteps of the mind i was just a soldier trained and not raised for raising would mean a coup at some point i was rather just a little girl kid lost on the floor of Grand Central Market amongst the watch towers of produce foxholes of spices grenades of chow mein and old man coffee napalm Kurtz was at every corner and my bayonet still could never hook the salmon filets embalming in the smoky mist of downtown bus pollution of course not being an heir of Grant or Lee i fell back in the back of most everything but my duty was not to keep score but rather lead the budding anarchy of my Phoenixian heart

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