Glorious suffering,
Born among the mysterious poor,
Shredding darkness with tiny
Bits of light that illuminate minutes,
The crests of moments, colorful,
Spreading across a grateful soul,
A manifestation of grace in poverty,
Streets of the nocturnal
that disperse into industrial days
Where they sweat the blood
And honor their young,
The poor have secret places
Gathering in the heart,
A rhythmic harmony in the simplicity,
They hear the birds,
Embrace the wind
And kiss the sorrows goodnight.

I bought myself a gun today.
I’ll give you a moment to process the mental paper work.
Is he serious?
Is this guy for real?
Is this a metaphor? Is it loaded?  

Are these questions
you might ask?
Isn’t this supposed to be a poem?

I said I bought myself a gun today.
Do you feel better?
Safer?
Do I
seem more dangerous?
Are my words more weighted now--
with violence?
with virility?
with *******?
Are you looking at my crotch
for an extra bulge?
How do you feel
about me now
knowing that I’m packing?

I bought myself a gun today,
And just like that
I’m a gangsta upholding the second amendment.
I’m a citizen of the constitution
holding up my right
to bear arms,
and raise my hand in a fist--
a fist, that’s gripped in tension
a fist that’s an extension
           of man and invention
           and I really should mention
          I can blow your ******* head off
          without the slightest intention.

I bought myself a gun today,
Are you scared:
that I don’t know how to use it?
That it might want to use me?
That I might become
overwrought with emotions,
and respond to an argument
“Arnold” style with, an,
   “I’ll be back?”--
that I might settle things
once and for all
with my noisy neighbor
in a language he might finally understand?
Are you scared?

I bought myself a gun today.
Does that make you worry?
You know what the statistics say,
That I have a better chance of shooting
myself,
than some intruder,
or mugger, or ******
or therapist even.
Are you worried about my self-destruction?
that I might I might accidentally
have an
accident?
Or, maybe, you may think,
that it might be on purpose?
that I might be singing
the, “Barrel-in-the-mouth blues?”--
not just fantasizing
about ‘em,
but singing ‘em with a with my mouth wide open,
and feeling them for real for real:
feeling the cold steel ‘cross
my tongue,
choking
on the taste of cordite,
really singing, “I can’t breathe,”
and how much
this ***** and having
the means to put and end to it all--
Are you worried about that?
If you are
then don’t,
‘cause I’m not thinking about that at all.

I bought myself a gun today.
Wouldn’t it be great
if we all could say:

I bought myself a gun today.

Forgive us our ignorance
Us, Nothing more than creature
We are but children
We have no teachers
And not even honest preachers
Humiliation burns
Bursting skin into blisters
Forgive us
Our ***** minds and fingers
We can learn
But we burn instead
Pain turns us evil
Lying animals
Murderous mammals

Let me walk upon the mountains
Swim the raging streams
Let me run once again
With the tumble weeds of dreams

Let me embrace the heavens
Such a starry feast
Let me embrace my creator
I'm overpowered and I weep

Let me stand inside the sunset
Embrace it in all it's warmth
Let me hug my sister moon
As I listen to wolfen cries that haunt

Let me ride the crest of waves
From the ocean blue
Just let me be on my way
My comet returning now overdue

If you will kindly forget about me
I will do the same for you