Stay outa the way of the bullet, son

The taut triggers, almost erotic when you’re used to that tempting tension. The strange satisfaction that runs to your body through that curved finger when you pull them against that inviting resistance, sending metal shots flying in the direction your muzzles are pointed, shearing through the leaves in the bush or thudding into a human body through blood, flesh and bone, or crashing into broken machine parts and ricocheting off them and hitting something passively somewhere before they fall and roll to a stop.

You know how a trigger feels on a shooter’s finger, and you almost physically sense the familiar tempting tension when you walk with sub-machine guns panning with you from behind the bunkers and the on-tree stations. When you are on the receiving end, every step you take feels like fingers squeezing the remainder of your life out of the tube of your body.

They had culled lives. The sub-machine guns. Like wildflowers meant to be culled.

Cane baskets. In the tender hands of girls. Or nested on their sides. Every now and then. It looked like the girls there went out collecting wildflowers for Christmas.

Waking up in a dungeon as if you were born right at that point right out of the womb of that dark pit with just a fuzzy visual memory of metal clashing with metal with some bloody purplish tint hazing the memory and nothing else, you can’t judge how life feels beyond the purely physical sensation you experience which language in retrospect can give such names as pain, lethargy, numbness, compunction, and so on. Son of a mother snatched from his warm womb by the force of what can take life and forced into another, a cold lifeless one, one the smuggled life to give life. A paradox.

25,000 lives killed. As many disappeared. Hundreds raped.

War. They don’t say it is. Definition. I no more care.

They define you. They give you meaning. Meaning of their choice. That gains currency if you can’t give currency to yourself. Once you are a coin with foreign imprints on both your sides, you begin to walk with the muzzles of the emperor’s gun pointed at you and panning with you to max out the limit of your life the moment you change currency and value.

Your mother’s letter would repeat itself even after it is no more relevant: Son, you will come home soon. Finally, if not too soon. Until then, stay outa the way of the bullet. I’am waiting for you, son.

Child dying before the parents. Rivers running backward. Nature taking steps back.

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