Part 1: Why There are
Guns
.
.
.
We’ve no taste for
shared reality.
We don’t wish to take
issue with issues
and issuers: those
who feel bound
to expose or repose
in the clouds of their
bias, espouse or
reject what they’re told
they’re supposed not
to like. We’ve not
read or heard a single report,
exhortation
or warning or fiat or
promise or threat,
any bet or surmise or
pronouncement that’s
not just another ass-backward
and epithet-
trumpeting blah-blah amassing
like toe jam
in some puny god’s
dirty feet. There’s no
.
woman or man in the
street to entreat
to amend or affect the
least bit of this
unlovely mess, except
with a gun. Which is
why there are guns. Hardly
a trenchant
analysis. Stop and go,
status quo. Things
go on as they do. As we
do, as you do.
.
…
.
Part 2: Should Ball Come to Bat
.
.
.
Part 2: Should Ball Come to Bat
.
Have we
caught the virus too?
Why are
we writing these isms to you?
What has
become of the boy
who had no
reason not to enjoy
every
breath of each bit of the life
that unerringly
entered him, rife
.
with more
interest and wonder
than ever
could let any blunder
occur. To
aver, to occur – catch
that verb
that allows us to scratch
at the blur
of the itch, that wonderful
bitch of an
itch which makes carping
.
a richer
arena of twitchy complaint.
You don’t
have to love every last
little
thing that goes past you:
though
you might want to note it.
Noting it
may be the ticket. For example
you smack
down a fly then you flick it
.
away with
a fingernail not ever
noting if
it’s still alive. It might be
alive,
after all; flies have resources
that tie
them to living, as many
as you do,
should ball come to bat.
But why are
we speaking of that?
.
…
.
Part 3: Pleading the Fifth
.
.
Part 3: Pleading the Fifth
.
Change – beneficent, maleficent
or impotent – occurs
as a product of sometimes
centrifugal, sometimes
centripetal random amalgams
of force more akin
to geology, meteorology,
protozoology or throwing dice
than human intention.
Outcomes – idiot exigencies! –
breed half-assedly
flatulent sum-ups deploring,
abhorring, adoring according
to whims blindly based
.
on a rank mash of willfully
specious and misconstrued
data purporting to offer
the shattering incontrovertibly
serious matter to go through
to follow what grunting
conundrums of creature
are left who by reflex decide
what we ought to
believe, which in toto amounts
to contrive to crush all
of what’s gone on before, then
to virally post in what fashionable nouveau media still
.
may be spluttering
on their reputedly brilliant if ghastly
resolves,
net-effecting to draw yet more volatile crowds
of bedoomed
disaffected and all but erased human souls
for whom nothing
remains but to pack themselves back
into black-painted
bleachers, forced to endure yet
another long
haul of a wait for the usual tedious
creatures
to bumble again into stagelight to put the old
show on once
more, each pray-wishing something or
someone would
kiss them or fist them, though destined
of course
never ever to be either fisted or kissed or in any
way
touched. Pleading the fifth (un-rushed), they search
for what
myth might be found, pricked by bubbles that
pop from
the ground of the tiny bits left of the dregs with
the
texture of rotting Cheez Whiz of primordial fizz.
.
This is the
sentence they’ll end this thing with.
.
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