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A Small Nickel-Plated Automatic...

Posted to Poetry





A Small Nickel-Plated Automatic (with Pearloid Grips) badly Photographed with the Odd Perspective and Unaesthetically Stark Illumination so Characteristic of Crime Lab Photography


Silently enduring the days
I have to live
with this increasingly vague
and cynical memory
of feelings outside the too-familiar realm
of despair,
anger,
frustration, and loneliness,
I am here alone.

And having failed
to accomplish anything
of even nominal or remote value
(even to myself),
I am quite finished,
and anxious
for the moment
after which I will no longer
have to endure the days
I have to live
with this increasingly vague memory...

Peculiar perhaps (but hardly ironic)
that the inevitability of death,
closer each day,
is my sole motivation
for this semblance of living
that I carry out with such detached effort.

I've seen things,
like a man holding a gun to his head
as a gathering crowd watched him
eventually pull the trigger
and slump into the bloody mess
that was once his head,
and I remember
the countless hours I've spent
holding a gun to my own empty skull.

Travis knew.
"You got no choice anyway,
because we're all fucked.
More or less."
(Or something like that,
which wasn't even in the script.)
"There’s no escape."

And, like him, I am a killer.


-Marc Weber (beatvibe@aol.com)