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90 dead metaphOr: mOsquitOes as nazis Spanish diminutive of mosca, or fly, Latin musca, but you’re thinking only mein Gott! as a phalanx of needle-nosed Luftwaffe, gray-striped, fat black, maneuver and close in. Battalion of thirsty sorrows. You complete a Chaplinesque retreat across cracked earth, reeling from friendly fire of hard slaps, neck, ankles aflame already in terrain of welts. On your hands, ashen stains of casualties, smears of blood. Nice. High summer, the battle rages, living’s fierce. You swig from a tepid bottle, contemplate the grill, slam yourself in the throat. Too slow, mein freund. Then the bottle again, buzz in the ears. Dazing coruscations of heat. West Nile running your veins. You exposed yourself to admire the grass-cutting theatre of operations, tactical successes. But to hell with the front. You can lament your homeland under siege from air-conditioned bunker, inside out. Surrender the field. Gas the chicken. ...

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