poet with a gun

Bravado strolls with the clink of spurs on weather-beaten boots

his words sear, branding a being whole

through layers of lackluster roots

Sifting for words like dust-pan gold

the drifter asks after taking a swig of grog,

“What’s a poem if it doesn’t rock the hell out of your soul?

Why do mean dabble in double-aught dialogue?

lock and load an insipid rubber bullet, 

leaving the barrel empty of its artistic slug?

The balladry of life is not so easily sung 

apathy has drained man bone-dry

reprisals left on the gallows hung

Inform young men to choose wisely their bullet 

inflame grown men with the gunfight of the tongue

and require of your discussions genuine intuition.”

With that the ink-slinger rides off towards a crimson sky

leaving a desiccate Santa Ana breeze behind

and a silvery mass of stimulus on the tongue.