little fi(c)t(ion)s: WEAPON

Life is a weapon and I’m shooting til I die.  Like that time when the world didn’t make sense and I jumped my neighbor’s fence shouting, “I’m buzzed but innocent.  Drunk on summer love and ignorance. Give me once more chance.  I swear this is my last whiskey dance.”  Can’t you smell the sincerity on my lips.  The mud underneath my fingertips.  The blood dripping down my broken nose.

Garden hose and slip n’ slide.  Life is a weapon and I’m shooting till I die.  Dodging land mines.  Lincoln logs and LEGOs.  Faux leather retro rocking chairs.  Badminton or perhaps volleyball nets.  Trapping regrets and indecision.  Crosshatched ennui.

And we dance.  Tangled in limbs and greasy tendrils of hair where the future and the past meet to say goodbye.  Life is a weapon and I’m shooting til I die.  So please standby. Thighs and elbows oiled and greased.  Cocked and ready safety switched off.  My third eye is expanding. Making demands for knowledge.

Pledge allegiance to your flags and forefathers.  This is my revolution.  There are many like it, but this one is mine. Life is a weapon and I’m shooting til I die.  This revolution, without me, is useless and without my revolution, I am useless.  I must fire my life-weapon true.  I must shoot straighter than my enemies.

Who expand infinitely like the universe every time I close my eyes.  Combining resources and information.  Expanding my paranoia and fears.  But I will not go gentle into that good night.  Life is a weapon and I’m shooting til I die.  And so I will still rage, rage against the dying of the light. It might be tomorrow.  Or tonight.

Or never.  Covered in black leather and cold weather rope entwined.  Everybody come together.  Right now!  Right now.  Life is a weapon and I’m shooting til I die.  And I hope you’re caught in the crossfire.  The newly illuminated innocent passerby.

Because I’ll keep on throwing my bullets until I’ve died.  Shattering this ignorant orgasmic bliss you call life.  Missing nothing and everything all at once.  Months and years.  Days and seconds.  The forgotten methods of history will repeat and rewind.  Life is a weapon and I’m shooting til I die.  Lying in a pool of my own blood.

Failed pursuit of life, liberty, and love.  A hail of bullets.  Or the thrust of a sword.  The metallic taste of poison.  Or my neighbors reported words.  It matters little how or when they snuff out my light.  I know I’ll never go down without a fight.  Life is a weapon and I’m shooting til I die.

Life is my weapon and I’m shooting til I die.

photo poem “Weapon” by CBR & RMW

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