Image for post
Image for post

There’s a projector that never stops
flashing images before my eyes:

the gunman the gunman the gunman
remembers his ear protection,

remembers his trigger etiquette,
remembers his extra ammunition,

the woman sobs and begs
a barrage of lenses and lights

for any information
that her mother might still be alive,

the crowd in Time Square
scatters like ducks from a pond

when it hears a motorcycle engine
backfire like a rifle,

because one day it will be,
a gunman a gunman a gunman

a lone wolf, radical, nobody man,
blunt dull instrument of death

walking like a blur
through the door through the door

through the door
and saying good-bye

without saying a word
the images of these faces

flashing before my eyes
so many so fast they blend and swirl

into a pale blank circle
with two holes for eyes

a shape that could be anyone,
a shape like a sheet

lifted up to identify the body
of every American Dream.

Written by

Provocative truth teller, author of 14 poetry collections. Cat dad. Dog dad. Currently working from Portland, Oregon. Learn more at: .

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