Wednesday, May 9, 2012


                                                                            —~---                                                                                                                            —----

What kills me
aren’t the guns
you tote but your thinking
that’s  in the chambers
and clips, the magazines
no one else can read
but still dread on hearing
what they report.

Language created the world
where tools can be made,
and now language lives inside
the spare parts
whose instruction manuals
are a poetry of rage and revenge
translated into an idiom of
technology that surveys the
outcome of another
kind of  Big Bang Theory..

It’s not about being
left alone any longer,
your message, inscribed
in manufacturer’s short hand
on casings spent  faster than
a drunk’s last dollar,

Bullets whistle
the language
of your rights
as they pass though
the skulls of anyone
who happens to be there,
expecting nothing but
the  light to change
and cold meal
warmed later in a microwa

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