Olde Army Veteran

We're watching “Rambo, snub of the Nam vet,” thirty years after it was first released. Finally, we can breathe. Thousands of years have passed, twisting rocks like a mad scientist or colonel. Collectively, time breaks apart. A scary sight. The movie ends with the mind-bending words: “Who doth not kill?” Long words of lust, as well, to be sure, and all that means is the bloody flow is finally, finally ebbing. We open our eyes, sense becomes a way of seeing, a head-sweating likemindedness attained in the confusion so funny anyway amid the incomprehensibleness the sheriff, as if diving into our shared transcendence, despairs. Ah a fake blush in lieu of real makeup – very good. Whether in imaginary or abstract casket selfie, flowers are a sacred visual effect. The backbone of a universal church curving like a tongue on every creature's – human or animal's – butt, dismembered then dropped into a warrior's mug. Vexingly, real steam is happening. Ending of cartoon apocalypse and dull family business tweet affecting what violence remains. Dang it. To Rambo, a veritable tower of balls, a sodomist's cancelled potential turns into jazz blurring and surpassing all.... “Through balancing splinter repugn that which, when dry, is bad,” the hero had said in the beginning. “So fucking shit, yet please let also death soothe the hidden differential in me which the demonic broth doth camouflage.”