by Brett Stout After she annexed her existenceandthe Crimea confessions as oxymoron’swere writtenin dead languages onblank Post-It Notesleft in empty carriagesas thebroken dams filled withneon ghetto trashcansand urban rodent predators weresprayingdesigner cologne onme and inthe pages ofmonthly corporate familymagazines, celebrate the revolutionwith blood soaked handsand pinwheelsof death and mass genocide yellow ochreprimary redblackandlime greenpaint strokes…