Praise of Bullets

A pull of the trigger and magically, with scant effort, opposition
is abolished...the crisp scent of gunpowder spells a pointed
calm...every bullet a tiny urn crammed with enchanted dust...
Ithyphallic and industrially pristine with a sharp
metallic profile...oversized bottom a pedestal for the shaft's
rise to pointed head...Rockets we pocket in chambers cold as 
mortician's heart...

Struck by the infernal ingenuity of man contriving to
so easily erase life...this glory we build upon...why 
shouldn't all engage? Enough bullets to plink every star 
from clear night skies...shoot down heaven to liberate fortune...

This envoi is carried on wafer shaped dishes unsettling
the peace in our smiles...it makes hearts swell...
they open and drink up blood spilled...the 
anonymity of those passed discovered, 
just as the humble stone cutter from Galilee played 
Deicide...One universal gesture of grace...a movement, 
Parmenides' sail bruising Terpsichore's heel...we hiss 
like broken samovars, eyes wider than evil's gate. 
Let me lick my fingers to part your hair and love
you with well aimed words. Carve our names on every 
bullet and we'll commune in massacre.