A Song Once Sung To An Infant Under The Gun.

Today the time ran out

just as it had begun—

Hot water fills the tub

you swore you’d never become—

It’s warm and shallow now

cut servings for only one—

The echo down the hall, well

that’s just yesterdays love—

Now it’s all become a song once sung

to an infant under the gun.

Today the moon refused

to trade place with the sun—

Sidewalks full of people

but still you know only one—

It’s an impossible force

that drags you from yourself—

Now it’s all become a song once sung

to an infant under the gun.

I try, you know I do, to balance

fault lines and faith, the surgeons

steel blade, it draws a bridge between both—

It’s a symphony of simple things

that will seem eclipsed by the sun—

Cause it’s all become a song once sung

to an infant under the gun.

California, 2020

In my neighborhood

Every muffler

Firework

SNAP-CRACKLE-POP

people assume is a gun shot.

I know why they imagine this

but I just can’t believe it myself, because

the men and women I see,

whose culture, features, religion

may differ from my own,

are hard working families.

And where I’ve still got fingers,

they’ve only bone.

Winnetka California 2020

I’d rather be shot dead.

I need someone

with gun in hand

cocked cold and ready

against my head

perhaps then

I’d have the reason

to finish this all red eh

I’ve lost interest

with no six gauge to my chest

fire crackers maybe

I’ve the strength to digest

Hell who am I kidding

I’m no good at roulette

but to settle for less, no

I’d rather be shot dead.

the polarity between real life and a college town.

I miss my former self.

A chatter-box of complaint.

Endless questions with premature answer.

Horny and mad.

Full of flowery language.

Undefined.

Chain smoking under the gun.

I miss my former self.

Like an old friend.

Like a past lover.

Like a finished book.

Like a sprained ankle.

Like a cavity.

Like film.

I miss my former self.

Arrogant.

Brooding.

Self-deluded.

Know-it-all.

Audacious.

Jerk.

I miss my former self.

Like turning 13.

Like watching Fox and Friends.

Like a one night stand.

Like romanticism.

Defined.

No longer smoking, still under the gun.

It’s the polarity between real life and a college town.