Archive for January 5th, 2014

This Land Is This Land

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Never Again

Magician To Me

All The Guns Are Gone

I write along a single line: I never get off it. I said that you were never to kill anyone, and I meant it.

 —Kenneth Patchen

Last year, round about this time, I broke.

A boy, so broken; broken from birth. So broken that, as he entered adolescence, he came to physically less resemble a human being, than a pop-eyed sketch of an extraterrestrial gray.

Ugly and strange and not-normal. And everyone always em,iliesaid: ugly and strange and not-normal. And they laughed—every one. And it became a torment, ever to, in public, even show his face.

So, through weeks, and months, and years, he closed himself off, from all the world. Eventually sealing all the windows, of his room, and of his soul. His room, he sealed with desperate scratchy black plastic, and duct-tape. So he could freely crouch. Ape-like. Masturbating. Before his video screen. His hands on the controls. Sealing the cessation of his soul. As he ceaselessly engaged, there on his screen, in killing. Killing. And killing. And killing. And killing. Killing. Killing. And killing.

Till, one fine morn, he awoke. Took a face from the ancient gallery. And walked on down the hall.

To blow, with her own gun, his sleeping mother, into bloody chunks.

Killing, this time—at long last—for real.

Then, the broken boy, he went to school.

And rained death down upon them with the second amendment freedom discharge of his god-given-right weapons unrecognizable some they had no longer any face what so proudly we hailed upon twenty little children in the twilight’s last gleaming they were five-year-olds they were of the age of fairies and fingerpaints and a broken boy because he could because any freedom git yer gun git yer gun git yer gun broken boy in America can freedom freedom freedom came to them with a gun and he concealed carry freedom second amendment blew all their faces and their brains away.

They were shot and they were killed and they were buried in closed coffins because they no longer had faces. Their faces splattered all about the schoolroom. Traces of blasted faces among the fairies and the fingerpaints. Five years old. Because freedom. Clap your hands. Because freedom. Clap your hands. Outta yer cold dead hands. Because freedom. Clap your hands. Sometimes. I. Feel. Like. A. Motherless. Child. Because freedom. Clap your hands. Hoo-rah. Semper fi. Aim high. Anchors aweigh. Because freedom. Clap your hands. Clap your hands. Clap your hands now.

furthur=>


When I Worked

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