Bullets and bombs

There is no telling how  much the world will  become until enough political will is exerted to  bring an end to the terror easily acquired assault weapons bring to daily life. I had mentioned to a friend in passing conversation that my  favorite film of the year is the Brad Pitt crime drama Killing Them Softly, a dark, moody  tragi-comedy in which , yes, guns and death are central to the plot points and building tension among the fictional particulars. 

What wasn't fictional was my friend's response, a dedicated cineaste,  who indicated that the day he planned to see it was the hellfire events of Newtown, a fact that quelled whatever desire to see the film , let alone venture into a the public sphere. So we ask, when will America sicken enough of being made afraid by amoral powers that be with boundless cash reserves and demand that their representatives clamp a tight, effective and permanent lid on combat weapons finding their way to our streets, schools and church yards? 

The long term effect is frightful, a country staying away from sports events, concerts, movie theatres, restaurants, public schools,  polling places on voting day , staying in doors and hoarding their basic needs and amusements rather than take the chance a purposeful, unexpected execution at the hands of the angry, the mentally ill, the malignantly disgruntled who got their hands on guns ,  guns, fucking goddamned guns as the means of making their presence known. 

The Poetry of  Bombs

 What kills mearen’t the guns
you tote but your thinkingthat’s  in the chambers
and clips, the magazinesno one else can readbut still dread on hearingwhat they report. Language created the worldwhere tools can be made,and now language lives insidethe spare partswhose instruction manualsare a poetry of rage and revengetranslated into an idiom oftechnology that surveys theoutcome of anotherkind of  Big Bang Theory.. It’s not about beingleft alone any longer,your message, inscribedin manufacturer’s short handon casings spent  faster than
a drunk’s last dollar,
 Bullets whistle
the language
of your rightsas they pass thoughthe skulls of anyone who happens to be there, expecting nothing but the  light to change and cold meal warmed later in a microwave.