Gun Control
written by: Tom S. Mahoney
Lingering heavy and slow,
End of a gun smoked barrel.
Familiar burn and a stifled cough,
Another long, hard drag
Me to the bottom where
Static noise is less pronounced.
Where a comfort unwinds and consumes
Like an unfurling fog of reprieve,
Albeit fleeting.
The smell of nostalgia
In the fevered dream of mid-winter,
On a mile of road made of miracles
Where real life was easier to ignore.
And yet the only sign of divinity,
Surviving another carton of ammunition.
But survival can quickly collapse,
From zero to 100s
Red and never shorts,
Because I prefer to kill my own cowboy
Twenty live rounds at a time.
What begins neatly cased,
Pristine and attent,
Becomes littered remains
Scattered ashen and grey.
I pace out the final draw,
Slow, measured, and methodical,
Self-control made apparent and ironic,
While the nagging peripheral murmur
Begs to be answered once again,
Whether another circumambulation
Between myself, Pall, and the silver-foiled static
Will ever amount to anything useful.
- Gun Control - August 26, 2026
