Gunslingers [Poem]

Here’s something I wrote in the waning of winter.

What are the options

When it’s too late for beginnings?

The ghost of time is all you’ve got

Because now you’re down and out,

In your own little mood,

You think you’ll survive on the

Bones of everything else you’ve done

Without the afterthought that


It’s easier to lose than to gain in a world

Where you dig a home in the sand

But it gets kicked in around you.

What we feel matters less than matter.


What a waste of four years”

Is all you hear from the


Who looks down at you

Over their uneven gold-rimmed


Maybe it’s time to leave

The cotton-ball womb

Says the independent

But that’s not me.

Not me yet.

I wish it was me and I show this by

Going out with people like Clark

Looking to turn bagged-up trees

Into canvases

In front of the homely aliens;

So far from a real home.

They are a micro society

That disregards the need for art.

A heterotopia that marginalized

The individual.

A purpose-defeater.

After we develop a fear of


And withdraw,

When we are broken,

We see ourselves

As the



In clocks.

It was only a matter

Of time

Before we broke.

We are very small,

They don’t make us any more.

Gunslingers [Poem]

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