Shooting Guns
Feb 26 2013


The gun lust
I remember from childhood
was for BBs,
a prized Daisy repeater.
And pellets,
stubby, lethal
they tell us
could take out an eye, at least.

With a dry phhhht, expelled
from the cold grey barrel.
The bulls-eye, on flimsy paper,
too weakly pierced
to satisfy
our need to blow things up.

No standing tough
against enough recoil
to dislocate your arm.
No concussion
that leaves the world distanced, muffled,
and something fuzzy
like tiny ringing bells.
.
So I think I understand
shooting guns.
The pleasing weight of steel.
The precise stillness,
heartbeat steady
between held breaths.
The power
of a single finger, gently tensed.
How all-consuming intent
sets you free.

But mostly
it's the disproportion
between action, and consequence
that so intoxicates.
If a butterfly flapping its wings
half a world away
can move a hurricane,
then what about a man
who feels like nothing
handed one?

The banal lethality
of swagger.
The chaos theory
of guns.