A people dedicated to
the song of the gun
the stuttering percussion
preceding
the siren's soprano aria
descending
into the low chorus of moans...
I love my gun
my gun shields me
from the wicked and the dark
my gun warms me
and I it
my pulse carried to its extremities,
breathing my breath.
I wake afraid in the night
clutching under my pillow
at the night stand
on the floor under my bed
until my fingers touch
the ice of my sleeping gun,
and I find peace.
How easy to still my wife's breathing
if she'd angered me
how easy to solve any dilemma
to cut through
like the man I am
my eye hard and cold
my heart pumping the secret blood.
A people dedicated to
the song of the gun
a swelling bass,
into crescendo
the brass credenza,
into a whimper...
My gun loves me
to handle it
to oil its crevasses
to adjust its mechanism delicately
to settle it in my hand,
filling the empty spaces
my warmth bleeding into its cold.
I wander the street at night
eyes left to right
over the shoulder
my heart small and afraid
until, by chance, my fingers touch
my gun,
my heart swells with courage.
My eyes watch those
who could be dead or dying
all in my power
I, the stronger, they the weaker
the individual and the faceless mob
the armed and the unarmed
my life with my gun.
A people dedicated to
the song of the gun
the rise of the timpani
the coming cry of the siren
interwoven in the score
meant to go unhitched
to the muted whimpering chorus...
We lie like lovers,
my fingers gradually loosening
as if I'm going to sleep
with my love beside me
nestled in my palm
untouched and unmoved
by the violence all around us.
Oh my gun protects me
from the shadows and the shades
that lay across my soul
doubts that impede my motion
my fingers seek it
as my tongue tastes blood;
shield me from danger.
How easy to let go
to hate that once beloved
the betrayer
if I had the strength I would
hurl it away
the savage moment behind me
and only death ahead.
