Go on, press record
Lift your phone to bloodshed
Lift your phone to the sound of hatred
Of bloodlust laid on a foundation
That was never really stable to begin with

Go on, film those frames
As you watch me beat the **** out of
All those who made me feel like ****
Worthless
Hated
Unloved
Alone
The final gunslinger, taking his stand
Draws his pistols, hipfiring
And in his stance, thumb through belt loop
Hat down over his eyes
Ashamed of his instant reaction,
His ability to **** and inability to remain emotionless

Go on, press record
Put it on Facebook
Let everyone know what you really are:
A cowardly bystander

His lawn must've held back its lunch
When he drove those signs
Deep into the soil;
Crushing little blades, 
Cutting roots, and displacing 
Perfectly placed earth.
Likewise, I had to hold back 
My breakfast this morning 
When I had dissenting opinions 
Driven into me;
Cutting through my skin into
My heart, making my palms sweat
And my stomach drop.

see how the sediment drifts to the river bed
collecting over months, years, centuries
forms shades of colours that relate
to a single tone on a paint chart
to order from a disgraced man
rotting in jail before he passes a cursed
fortune to the daughter. how she relishes the numbers
& still likes to cast a rod in the stream
where the trout are jumpy and her wide
pants are proof against numerous things

hear how the current washes against the sandy
river beach. stretching your ears for surface
vibrations, spotting the littlest insects skating
hopefuls dodging the granules. smell the
clarity of water which has no scent but is
pure and hardly exists but you can feel it
rising up above your knees as your shins soak
and synthetic legs protect you from tadpoles
that morph into frogs you would never kiss.

hook a fish on barbed wire and watch it struggle
light the campfire and notice the flames rise
a communion with devils that breathe hot
embers. taste the flesh white and smokey
lick a fork until nothing remains
but taste buds that linger with the memory
of something captured. touch the rock
that is grey and brown and black all at once
how pink crystals sharpen & glisten

a thousand miles we traveled to see
your jack-hammered giants--we arrived at dusk
just as the torrents began, bathing your
chiseled countenances

we hid in our chariot of modernity
wipers flapping in syncopated time, Bluetooth belching
out words from kin, "have a good time,"
"sorry for the storm..."  

but I wasn't, for lightning struck
a blackjack pine, and four mammoth men
came to life, their sheen now electric, their long
mute voices once again a resounding roar