Worship
A guns poem
--
Worship
The American Dream has become a bullet
loaded into its chamber
like a coffin into a hearse,
perpetual anxiety state
of perpetually getting worse,
in a daily deadly game
of pop goes the duck duck goose.
Shooting gallery serenade
sung morosely by anchors
of the suicide nightly news,
nothing to be done
except stick another child
onto the school bus
like a roulette ball dropped down a chute.
Isn’t this exhausting? Isn’t this more than proof
that prayer accomplishes nothing
but another reason to feel aloof,
separate from the chaos
until the chaos comes to roost?
I’m not telling you
what you should or should not do,
or how to justify your life,
but if you’d rather watch your children die
than have one less option
of how to spend your dimes,
maybe what you worship
is participating indirectly in the crime.
