Packing Heat

guns look so cool
(let’s be honest).
I know, it’s childish,
and not becoming
of a pacifist like me.
if only guns didn’t kill.
if only guns shot peace!
 — I’d pack that heat!
I’d come rushing in, 
guns a’ blazing, 
shepherding corrective 
Blam! Blam!
puncturing holes 
in pompous oppressors — 
their smugness squeals 
as it gushes, oozes 
out their peace-holes, 
converts to steam,
slithers along the floor boards,
disappears between the seams;
after a minute or so
of redemptive agony,
that oppressor would leap 
back to his feet,
with bounding cheer — 
unseen (and unfelt)
in many’a year.

— Watch it! 
In steps some
crazy-eyed Charlie Hustle,
looking to con
an unsuspecting
vulnerable grandmother — 
Blam! Blam!
he clutches his chest,
falls to the floor,
crawls out the door,
down the street,
into the arms of the wife
and child he left behind.

Blam! Blam!
righteous bullets
rupture steel wallets 
of bloodless bankers,
dollar bills explode into the sky,
into butterflies,
flutter back to the soft pockets 
of the swindled masses.

Blam! Blam!
hot lead through the heart
of each perfidious preacher,
lead so hot 
it melts the White-Out 
from the face of every 
buried bible verse,
unleashing ancient light, 
which explodes like a beacon
into the chapel’s sky, 
and hoards of God-seekers
pour into the pews
to find refreshment for 
their thirsty souls.

Blam! Blam!
all over my wicked world, 
shattering the fragile 
masks of frightful 
Blam! Blam!
Blam! Blam! Blam!
then I’d just stand
atop the debris, 
firmly fixed 
in the correctage 
(inverse of ‘wreckage’)
looking oh-so cool
in the center
of the freshly quieted 
scene, with a Clint 
Eastwood squint,
and a prodigious 
Peace Pistol in each 
unwavering hand — 
long, pointed pipes 
of peaceful proactivity,
each one exhaling 
the swirling smoke 
of an action taken,
of threats inverted,
of goodness asserted.
From the NEW Collection of Poetry by Dan Kent:
Diamonds Mixed with Broken Glass
Available at Amazon: HERE

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