Man Shot First
Man was for us the culture without the glitter and the pearls. Man was for us the poetry jammed up and starting to stammer. Man was the mirage of marching forward. The mirage of murder. Man was good in training. Man was enough for it. Man was shooting stars or bullets, all for the sense of awe.
With man everything was restrained, except pointing to the hurt places. The hurt places as seen in mirrors from every side. As none of us could see. With man every murder meant a little boy deserving love. Love was a mirage moving forward, with dryness in the mouth and blisters.
Man was never dead enough to bury, but man was swallowing his poison hard. Man was resolution and a lack of perspective. Man was following an obsolete map, stumbling in the desert with the rest of us far behind. Man was the solitary icon. Man was the glower between a cigarette and a horse.
Man said, let’s not tell anyone. Man said, it’s only physical. Man shot first and the questions later. Man fell asleep after. Man didn’t hear because the alphabet was shaking loose. The stars were shaking loose like glitter. Man might have been beautiful, but my camera wouldn’t stop shaking.
Denver Quarterly 56:1 (2021): 48.
