Shot my big fat mouth off.
Shot myself in the foot.
Hobbled into the kitchen.
Fixed a shot; broke out
the saltines; gobbled a few.
Took a potshot at the cracker
squatting in the backyard.
Shot up the toaster, the micro,
the blender, the food processor.
Limped down the hall,
removing clothing till nude.
Entered the bedroom.
Eyeballed the mirror;
shot both balls off, shattering
my image wholly to shit.
Picked my way over shards
back out up to the den,
where sci-fi insects crawled from the computer;
displayed pooters; promptly had sex; died. But
not before the ladies shot their eggs through a port
into the central processor. I kicked aside a cicada
the size of a vacuum.
Made it out to the livingroom.
Picked off the cocktail table the phone.
Shot my big fat mouth off to the cops.
Invited the pigs for barbecue, plus a friendly shootout.
Tossed the cell like a skeet. Shot
the peripheral midair dead center;
hoped the cops heard; segued, outta ammo, into a syncope –
failed to know where I was, am, or would be. Found myself
up on Whidbey shooting a Western,
about to wrap it up. When they found me, I was pee-
ing on the rug, blood flooding the throat, foot half gone.
But no pain. Because, from babyhood,
I’ve boasted a bullet-head. So,
when zero to shoot happens, I go zen
as a Win Dixie turkey leg deep frozen.