Yesterday I was all giddy because I got to stick my gun in somebody’s ear, which is becoming a rare thing. Then when I got home there was a journal with two of my poems in it.
It was nice. I liked it.
Later that night I got a call. A guy I know was in a shooting. He did good, his partner did good. But it made me feel like such an asshole, the earlier feeling I had about gunning this guy hiding in his bathtub. How too often I think it’s all a kind of game. I don’t know. It’s complicated. I suppose it’s natural to have conflicted feelings.
I shouldn’t say anything about it.
This afternoon I was looking at this gun this guy used to blow his brains out. There was a feather stuck in the blood on the barrel. The guy had put a pillow over his face.
I don’t know. It just seemed incongruous.
A little white feather stuck there.