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)
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