Overcoming a Fear of Firearms

The stupidest day of the year is the day

after St. Patrick’s. The light has

gone out of my life, O wise cashier

that sees into the future. You know I will

inevitably purchase all the ingredients

for a fine roast. You are already bagging

invisible things that will render me beatific

in a day or two, though I have forgotten

all of my principles and what currency

is used for. Money burns a hole through

the projector screen of the night. A strange

sound begins to emanate from the woods.

I knew what tasks lay ahead of me,

but I was reluctant to accomplish them.

I didn’t want to shoot anyone. My gun

from the first act only shot water.

A fine white dust began to settle

on top of the town. The steeple

was buried first. We were a godless people

but an army of missionaries was on their way,

bringing us finely woven blankets

and bottles of pinkish wine.