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Feed the Guns – O Torpid Soul![1]

Firing Lead into another man’s Flesh isn’t being

Brave … Your Guts is all in your Trigger Finger[2]

Who’s Got the Gun, who Owns the Gun, who Sold the

Gun, who Pulls the Gun, and who does the Gun let Sleep?[3]

Havin’ a Gun around’s an Invitation to somebody to Shoot you[4]

Only the Monstrous Anger of Guns ­– Only the Stuttering Rifle’s

Rapid Rattle … the Shrill, Demented Choir of the Wailing Shells[5]

If you want to Play with Firearms, you would do Better to take a Pop at Yourself[6]

His entire Life Force swells behind his Sternum to Shield off the Bullet that, in a Flash,

Pops his Skin and reveals him to be just the bag of Blood we all Carry in our Bones[7]

By Shooting the Big Shots full of Little Shots the Little Shots

Do not become Big Shots – they make Everything all Shot[8]

How Martial is this place! Had I a Mighty Gun – I think

I’d Shoot the Human Race – and then to Glory Run![9]

Even after people Turn to Flee, the Bullets Pursue

Them, Lodging themselves in Receding Backs[10]

[1] James D. Hughes, My Son

[2] Budd Schulberg, On the Waterfront

[3] Erica Hunt, Mourning Birds

[4] Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

[5] Wilfred Owen, Anthem for Doomed Youth

[6] Anton Chekhov tr. Constance Garnett, Uncle Vanya

[7] Lâle Davidson, Calling Down the Mountain

[8] Peter Maurin, Big Shots and Little Shots

[9] Emily Dickinson, My Friend Attacks My Friend!

[10] Arundhati Roy, The Ministry of Utmost Happiness

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