Let’s get drunk on something and shoot the gun.
Blow our troubles away
In a blanket of black snow.
By our hips, our groins, our hearts, our Achilles tendons.
Silver bullets and black powder,
Shoot first and grow tall in the echoing silence.
If you are white, we will shoot you.
If you are black, we will shoot you.
If you are red, or yellow, or brown,
We will shoot you.
When fears burst like falling stars,
All skin can be assigned the color of innocence.
We have the silver bullets.
We snort the black powder,
Independence quick as smack.
Silenced too long, we shout louder,
“God&Country”, “God&Money”, “God&Guns”.
God is a twinkly, many-colored snowman.
Nobody has his back.
Sometimes we shoot him down, just for fun.
In the fallout of combusting countries, confettied currencies,
Only guns speak in all tongues.
A bullet has no innocence, only righteousness.
Cock and fire.
Gone in a shot, a crack.
Fingers pressed into the tenderness of hurt,
Squeezed to the rim of madness.
Stuck in our own crosshairs,
We shoot ourselves again, and again.
Truth or dare.
Take a whack.
Hit and hit back.