guns look so cool
(let’s be honest).
I know, it’s childish,
and not becoming
of a pacifist like me.
if only guns didn’t kill.
if only guns shot peace!
— I’d pack that heat!
I’d come rushing in,
guns a’ blazing,
shepherding corrective
explosions,
Blam! Blam!
puncturing holes
in pompous oppressors —
their smugness squeals
as it gushes, oozes
out their peace-holes,
converts to steam,
slithers along the floor boards,
disappears between the seams;
after a minute or so
of redemptive agony,
that oppressor would leap
back to his feet,
with bounding cheer —
unseen (and unfelt)
in many’a year.
— Watch it!
In steps some
crazy-eyed Charlie Hustle,
looking to con
an unsuspecting
vulnerable grandmother —
Blam! Blam!
he clutches his chest,
falls to the floor,
crawls out the door,
down the street,
into the arms of the wife
and child he left behind.
Blam! Blam!
righteous bullets
rupture steel wallets
of bloodless bankers,
dollar bills explode into the sky,
metamorphosize
into butterflies,
flutter back to the soft pockets
of the swindled masses.
Blam! Blam!
hot lead through the heart
of each perfidious preacher,
lead so hot
it melts the White-Out
from the face of every
buried bible verse,
unleashing ancient light,
which explodes like a beacon
into the chapel’s sky,
and hoards of God-seekers
pour into the pews
to find refreshment for
their thirsty souls.
Blam! Blam!
all over my wicked world,
shattering the fragile
masks of frightful
aggressors.
Blam! Blam!
Anti-chaos!
Calming!
Settling!
Comforting!
Resolving!
Blam! Blam! Blam!
then I’d just stand
atop the debris,
firmly fixed
in the correctage
(inverse of ‘wreckage’)
looking oh-so cool
in the center
of the freshly quieted
scene, with a Clint
Eastwood squint,
and a prodigious
Peace Pistol in each
unwavering hand —
long, pointed pipes
of peaceful proactivity,
each one exhaling
the swirling smoke
of an action taken,
of threats inverted,
of goodness asserted.
Featured photo by Scott Erickson, painter, speaker and “creative priest.”
Follow Scott on Instagram and check out his site
