"Dear Bullet, If a body is what you want,
then here is bone and gristle and flesh.
Here is the clavicle snapped wish, the aorta is open valves,
the leap thought makes at the synaptic gap.
Here is the adrenaline rush you crave.
That inexorable flight.
That insane puncture into heat and blood.
And I dare you to finish what you've started because, here,
bullet here is where I complete the word you
bring hissing through the air.
Here is where I moan the barrel's cold esophagus,
triggering my tongue's explosives for the rifling I
have inside of me.
Each twist of the round spun deeper
because here, bullet, here is where
the world ends every time."
For what it's worth--
it's cool when I wrote that poem, it's odd.
I folded it up, and I put it in a Ziploc bag,
and I put it in my pocket.
It was in February of 2004, and it stayed there the rest
of the time that I was there--
the remainder of my tour.
Tour is a weird word, right?
Yeah.