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January |
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a poem by Steve Calamars
either you or me
tired of real work
i decided to revert
to gun play
toying with a .357
i began to mockingly
refer to it as a .22
finally frustrated
and angry with me
it vented on a
cashier at a
convenience store
on the south side
of town
the poor kid crumpled
on the floor with a
softball-sized hole
in his chest
i took the $124
from the register and
opted to bury the hatchet
with the .357
i bought a box of
hollow-point slugs
and began feeding them
to the revolver
like steroids
now it routinely
erupts in unpredictable
bouts of rage and venom
so much so that
i'm getting paranoid
it might try to turn
on me soon
i keep it occupied
as much as i can
i keep it at arm's length
and pacified with plenty
of fresh targets
i'm sorry to say
i've created a monster
and i'm afraid it's
come down to
either you or me
and for what it's worth
at least for the moment
i happen to be on the
monster's good side
i decided to revert
to gun play
i began to mockingly
refer to it as a .22
and angry with me
it vented on a
cashier at a
convenience store
on the south side
of town
on the floor with a
softball-sized hole
in his chest
from the register and
opted to bury the hatchet
with the .357
hollow-point slugs
and began feeding them
to the revolver
like steroids
erupts in unpredictable
bouts of rage and venom
i'm getting paranoid
it might try to turn
on me soon
as much as i can
and pacified with plenty
of fresh targets
i've created a monster
and i'm afraid it's
come down to
either you or me
i happen to be on the
monster's good side