October 5, 2003

  • turn and shoot


     


    It’s but early autumn


    (not Fall since I’ve only seen a solitary leaf ‘fall’ all day).


    Fall is a graphic,


    Autumn’s a season.


    (like sex is a graphic when love is the reason).


     


    Autumn, yet there’s (incongruously) a fifty pound bag of ‘Boot Hill Sand’
    cast at my feet (what feeds the desolate shore it issued from?


    Its container bag of textured burlap is just a body bag
    for the original wash and sort that now rests, procured, in peace).


    I could be anywhere alit upon this globe,
    roundabout, circumventing the abyss.
    So why do I think myself  plot-bound, restrained,
    while I’ve a breath-filled body
    and raving pulse yet?  The world is
    immensely explorable:
    just imagine
    you and I
    at 50 paces
    drawing


    and shooting


    kisses.


     


    Whoever misses


    exposes to the other’s mouth


    a breast and pays with


    the sweet succor


    of soft flesh taken.


     


    Either way,


    we cheat fate,


    beyond the chill of the night,
    gunslinging us delicious.

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