I didn’t know she was drunk
until,
she threw up across her desk.
they say “don’t write about love
because it’s lame
because it’s all been said before
because by now,
everyone knows it doesn’t exist.”
but this was it,
the real thing
all the burning
and desires
the smell of rhone
the smell of rain
she wretched back and forth
(the fish tank lights of fluorescent classrooms found
their subject)
the rest of the class sat in front of their computers
like rookies in a police academy
obedient
loyal,
sipping cups of coffee for amphetamine psychosis
becoming machines in hopes of not being replaced by
them.
like the scabs who cross picket lines,
like the prisoner of war who builds bullets,
getting a paycheck today to extinct tomorrow.
but not her
she is a rebel
in a time
when only pop music is cool,
when the last revolution
wasn’t televised
but free wi-fied
and in an age where being dangerous
is supporting gays
and ‘liking’ France
on your Facebook page,
sometimes
all it takes is public vomiting
to prove
that you are still free