gimme a gun and a paper target, I´ll show you the stars

tonight I’m gonna sleep into the thick of it.
there is no end in sight I guess
another gun shot at the sky–did they tell you bullets travel for a mile?
and still they come back down.
I was on belly, breathing the powder that rose in the air after the back thrust of the wood and metal body against my skinny chest. Thunder even through plastic ear muffs.
I remember sandbags but not why.
dry in my mouth, eating the air of michigan summer, between heat and the next rainstorm. Next bolt of lighting.

In philly on New Years staying off the roof
because people with guns
like to shoot them in they air.
Do they know the bullets fall? Lead rain
catch it in your hands
dance between droplets
open your mouth for the fast sweet taste of metal.

Imagine a dance where the purpose is to outdodge your partner:
I can.
What you don’t ask for you get.
Take off your clothes on the shooting range.
I was seven years old once
and someone put a rifle in my hands.
I didn’t mind. I wanted to lick it. I also wanted to win.

Did I imagine any of this? How metaphorical the bullets would become,
how I’d long for the smell of hay fractured by a ray of sun
but I knew I’d never long to be again
a child

I knew if given a gun and a city rooftop
I’d fire at the angels
cross my fingers for endless upward falling
in the quick bam bam blast,
series of tiny explosions that would follow
scattering me with technicolor electric light.

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