NO KILL
NO KILL
i fell on my head in the sebec river
and woke up talking to a fire hydrant
on telegraph ave. in berkeley california
this could happen to you too if you were brave
enough for derangement
and bodily harm
yes, pain is good
readjusts perspectives
humbles
brightens the fact
that you are mortal
and you are going to die and it will probably hurt – we get a glimpse at an exit while savoring
life
oil trucks, pick-up trucks, lumber trucks, a train –
a parade louder than a fourth of july tuba
all day every day
we’re supposed to be on a farm here
but we’ve got this road
it leads to a lumber mill
and we also have the freight train
i hear it coming now 5:50 a.m.
one guy, i guess you’d call him an
engineer
his grandmother lives
with the tracks in her backyard
a few houses down
this guy, i guess you’d call him an
asshole
blows hello to grandma
every morning
trees bend over
birds fly away
the horn flies off the train
even turtles run
hi grandma!
the old lady laughs it off
she says she can’t hear a thing
power of ravens’ wings
see the light through the feathers
the viola buzz of mosquitoes
bumbling choruses of bees
my affection will not unlock
i don’t understand crickets
but i can hear this typer
i hear predators at night
fishers, martens, bob cats, great horned owls
devouring fawns, cats, porcupines
wails, growls and shrieks and plaintive peeps
black flies and mosquitoes
trying to eat me
leaves falling in august
while peter’s wood saw
is one more sound
to drown the whispering
of the blueberries
the lack of humanity
reminds me i was in a duel once
it wasn’t over a woman
it was existential boredom
a case of dislike in the moment and
a case of “why not?”
it was was winter
i remember the blood on the snow
electrifying my vision
i can attest to the obvious:
getting shot hurts
but less and less
and i’ve been hurt worse in gang fights, a stabbing, and accidents.
after five concussions
spewing blood onto the snow has a routine quality to it
his bullet went through where my mustache would have been, knocking out five teeth on it’s way out the side of my face
i was choking on blood and fragments
my bullet collapsed his right lung
as soon as we knew what we had done
we realized our fathers would kick our asses
“we can’t tell anyone,” he gasped,
as we bled into the bathroom sink.
“fuck that. you’re going to die.” “my father will kill me.” “we’ll keep the cops out of it, but
not doctors.”
the sonofabitch had no exit wound
which meant he was going to really get his ass
kicked
it was just a wintery day in the snow and a vacuous gray sky
his late grandfather had left us a full bar
and these pistols
there is something about a gun that creates the imperative to use it and we had animosities
his jealousies
i had lost my virginity
to olivia newton john
and he was a virgin
still jerking off to films from denmark
and i was attracting attention for my trumpet playing – recordings, concerts with miles davis
whereas he had quit
the horn and had went to a big name private school
where parents afforded the huge tuitions
to make their average progeny appear elite
the guy had many reasons to dislike me
but not to kill me
which is what he had tried to do
the rule was
shoot below the heart
below the midline
but he was a sociopath
who killed every bird, woodchuck,
chipmunk, dove, crow, catbird and cat that came into his
grandmother’s yard with perfect head shots
he shot me inches from my brain
why would i want to shoot him?
because he suggested shooting me
when i got home, i avoided my old man.
he was capable of taking a ball-peen hammer
to my mouth
and then pouring clorox into it
i waited for mom, who was a nurse
she looked at my face, mouth, throat – “not too bad”
and called my friend’s father
who did not know
his son was carrying a bullet
mom set up a clandestine operation
no cops involved
just her, an anesthesiologist, and her surgeon friend
the doc laughed
as he pulled the bullet from my friend
like he was taking part in something special
the gangster surgeon
who had found his first bullet
i couldn’t play trumpet for awhile and had countless trips to oral surgeons and dentists
but we both recovered totally
though it took him longer because his father was punching him in the face
every day
he and i did not hang out anymore – which might have been the point
i fell on my head in the sebec river
and woke up talking to a fire hydrant
on telegraph ave. in berkeley california
this could happen to you too if you were brave
enough for derangement
and bodily harm
yes, pain is good
readjusts perspectives
humbles
brightens the fact
that you are mortal
and you are going to die and it will probably hurt – we get a glimpse at an exit while savoring
life
oil trucks, pick-up trucks, lumber trucks, a train –
a parade louder than a fourth of july tuba
all day every day
we’re supposed to be on a farm here
but we’ve got this road
it leads to a lumber mill
and we also have the freight train
i hear it coming now 5:50 a.m.
one guy, i guess you’d call him an
engineer
his grandmother lives
with the tracks in her backyard
a few houses down
this guy, i guess you’d call him an
asshole
blows hello to grandma
every morning
trees bend over
birds fly away
the horn flies off the train
even turtles run
hi grandma!
the old lady laughs it off
she says she can’t hear a thing
power of ravens’ wings
see the light through the feathers
the viola buzz of mosquitoes
bumbling choruses of bees
my affection will not unlock
i don’t understand crickets
but i can hear this typer
i hear predators at night
fishers, martens, bob cats, great horned owls
devouring fawns, cats, porcupines
wails, growls and shrieks and plaintive peeps
black flies and mosquitoes
trying to eat me
leaves falling in august
while peter’s wood saw
is one more sound
to drown the whispering
of the blueberries
the lack of humanity
reminds me i was in a duel once
it wasn’t over a woman
it was existential boredom
a case of dislike in the moment and
a case of “why not?”
it was was winter
i remember the blood on the snow
electrifying my vision
i can attest to the obvious:
getting shot hurts
but less and less
and i’ve been hurt worse in gang fights, a stabbing, and accidents.
after five concussions
spewing blood onto the snow has a routine quality to it
his bullet went through where my mustache would have been, knocking out five teeth on it’s way out the side of my face
i was choking on blood and fragments
my bullet collapsed his right lung
as soon as we knew what we had done
we realized our fathers would kick our asses
“we can’t tell anyone,” he gasped,
as we bled into the bathroom sink.
“fuck that. you’re going to die.” “my father will kill me.” “we’ll keep the cops out of it, but
not doctors.”
the sonofabitch had no exit wound
which meant he was going to really get his ass
kicked
it was just a wintery day in the snow and a vacuous gray sky
his late grandfather had left us a full bar
and these pistols
there is something about a gun that creates the imperative to use it and we had animosities
his jealousies
i had lost my virginity
to olivia newton john
and he was a virgin
still jerking off to films from denmark
and i was attracting attention for my trumpet playing – recordings, concerts with miles davis
whereas he had quit
the horn and had went to a big name private school
where parents afforded the huge tuitions
to make their average progeny appear elite
the guy had many reasons to dislike me
but not to kill me
which is what he had tried to do
the rule was
shoot below the heart
below the midline
but he was a sociopath
who killed every bird, woodchuck,
chipmunk, dove, crow, catbird and cat that came into his
grandmother’s yard with perfect head shots
he shot me inches from my brain
why would i want to shoot him?
because he suggested shooting me
when i got home, i avoided my old man.
he was capable of taking a ball-peen hammer
to my mouth
and then pouring clorox into it
i waited for mom, who was a nurse
she looked at my face, mouth, throat – “not too bad”
and called my friend’s father
who did not know
his son was carrying a bullet
mom set up a clandestine operation
no cops involved
just her, an anesthesiologist, and her surgeon friend
the doc laughed
as he pulled the bullet from my friend
like he was taking part in something special
the gangster surgeon
who had found his first bullet
i couldn’t play trumpet for awhile and had countless trips to oral surgeons and dentists
but we both recovered totally
though it took him longer because his father was punching him in the face
every day
he and i did not hang out anymore – which might have been the point
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