I wore  
a camouflaged
T-shirt
for the first
7 years of
my life.

I couldn't have
been no more
than 5 or 6
when my father
first put a Mini14
into my small eager
young hands.

I had been raised
on the Ruger and the
20 Gauge.
Both of
which I had
mastered
long before
my ABC's.

He felt I
was ready
and somehow
I knew I was too.

I learned how
to shoot from
the shoulder
before I could
ride a bicycle.
I was dismantling
assault rifles
around the time I
learned how
to swim.



"You're shooting too high"
he'd  say near my face.
That familiar scent of
spearmint  chewing gum
and gunpowder still
lingers along the halls
of my memory.

Where some seen danger
or violence
I found an escape from the
foolish games
I never excelled at as
a short stammering ,
toothless little
boy.

Out here in the open
desert spaces
I am the master of my
weapon, the hunter and
the protector
of these wastelands.

When I take my time
and remember to breath .
The way he taught me to do,
my aim will always ring true.

And this makes him happy.
He praises my skill before
always giving me another lesson
even after I surpassed
his own.

Who would have thought those
steal and paper targets,the clay
pigeons and the
left behind beer bottles
would all one day led up
to all of the choices
that have become.

I was never an
athlete,
never liked sports.
Still don't.
When they cheer over
some ball chasers so
called achievement.
I can't help
but think of
the fact that I
could have hit
that ball in mid
air.
Just like the clay
pigeons I've shattered
by the thousands
as a boy.