Concealed Weapon

 

And come to discover

we are all playing

a game of mandated Russian Roulette

–and you thought Monopoly was bad!

 

 

whether you’re anti-gun

or

stick to your guns

young or old,

happy or sad,

you are packing heat.

(no permit required)

 

Sometimes the cylinder spin

clicks to

a chamber

like a gag gun,

like: is that a 45 in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

gag gun

(safe muzzle to nuzzle)

and

yAy!

or

pheW!

or

boOom!

or

any number

of fluttering tomfooleries unfurling from barrel

(up to 5 anyway)

the room so engaged

is

most importantly

free of blood-spatter,

and backdrop for

living ritual

(becoming or established)

and the spinning game stops

for any number of years,

(a few decades, anyway)

and the weapon

seems innocuous

seems unreal

seems like it isn’t cemented

in your grip at all

–yet it is.

 

Sometimes the cylinder spin

to chamber

doesn’t click at all–

it pumps the gun, and surprise!

–that pocket rocket’s a squirt gun!

fun in the summer

(of your life)

only

as surprises are,

the liquid it sprays

could be egg as easily as water as

easily as blood

and it’s certain to end up in your face

being the gun’s to your head

and all,

and the spinning game is less fun now,

for any number of weeks

(weeks left, anyway)

and the soaking blaster

gives you pause suddenly

gives you perspective

gives you the willies, really

–since who even knew

you owned that gun?

 

Sometimes the cylinder spin

is loaded

fully loaded and no mistake

there usually isn’t

and fate is wrested into one’s own hands

even sooner than prematurely

. . .

her hands

. . .

his

. . .

and the second book can never be written

(not after that magazine)

and that second chance can never be realized

(not after that second shot)

and there is no one left to encourage you

to even write it and

no one left to care and

the shocking piece

leaves you undone

leaves you forever

leaves you in the perpetual wound of grief

that this offshoot of the spinning game becomes

for any number of days

(too many, anyway)

you find yourself on the suddenly wrong side of the daisies.

 

Eventually the cylinder spins

to the chamber

that’s weighted

(just for you)

and that’s the money shot

–the “mean-it” shot—

the faster than a speeding bullet–

 

–shit…never mind

and suddenly that

shooter launches!

kaboOOoom!

(guns blazing!)

and your world and every

chamber in it explodes

(holy crap! That’s some serious hardware!)

–and you thought a scythe was bad!

(knife ≠ gun fight)

and the fully-strapped Reaper steals your punchline

after all

and last word

–kaboOOoom for those of you keeping track–

an elegy

that echoes any number of seconds

(til the end, anyway)

and takes you by surprise

–by the shorthairs

takes your breath away

–by the crosshairs

takes who you are

away

–to split hairs

. . .

Anti-gun,

pro NRA

(or not)