(inspiration: this article)
It’s best that bull’s-eyes
It’s best that bull’s-eyes
stay pixelated,
not painted
onto tangible targets –
wooden,
shaped like black hollow hoodies
with a pack
of skittles up one sleeve
and a
threatening bottle of iced tea in the other –
kept at a
distance
that you choose.
It’s
different in this dimension –
this isn’t a
video game.
You can’t
just stop
push the
plastic button
under your
thumb
take those
shots back,
reload.
Here, on
sidewalks you can feel
under your
walking feet,
bullets fire
get lodged
and stay
in wood, in
bone,
in flesh,
in memories
–
and it’s not
romantic nostalgia.
It’s crimson
pooling at your feet.
It’s a pair
of rolling eyes flashing white.
It’s the
wetness of tears in winter air.
It’s angry
cries, it’s sniffling pleas –
some last
loud and long
and the
silent ones
blare only
with helpless frowns,
endlessly.
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