I have bullets—both the kind that work with guns, and the type that emanate from Power-Point; more of the latter than the former. Bullets are useful in their own way, but both types should be used carefully. They are each fraught with danger, and have their own limitations. One can end your life; the other may impede its comprehension.
Easy the way, not always best
to get from “A” to “B.”
Shoot first, questions later,
precludes journey’s wisdom.
Bullet, fired as projectile,
but also point boiled down,
as if life can be distilled
from swirling waters in
the vat of our existence
by fire and force extruding
through tiny coiled pipe,
dripping proof by proof.
Bullets have their way,
intoxicating us into believing
their once-and-for-all density
as single-answer forevermore.
Death is mostly what they convey,
one draining blood from bodies,
other sucking breath from imaginations,
both flattening earth to two dimensions.
Two transcendent gifts:
resurrection repudiates ammunition,
story re-inspires connective tissue,
giving existence eternity and meaning.
Putting them both together,
eastering-up our own narratives,
gives necessary tools to daily face
all the chaos and questions creation can muster.
© 2011 Todd Jenkins
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