Poems Fanned from a Sixshooter

That ain’t nothing,
it’s my false starts.
That ain’t something,
it’s your false heart.

In her night spot,
back of Sheri’s restaurant,
our lady of many qualms
drizzles pineapple syrup
onto her over-hards and ham.

Friends will eat up your face while you’re not looking. They’ll turn it inside out and wear it around, reflecting back what they want you to see in your self, about them, not true. It’s not true, these projections of them in you.

Past silent little failures
having not summed you up
rake and rage raw nerve
as present moments degrade
until the fight comes on and
adrenaline pump muscle burn
shock therapy fist collide

Clothesline the greedy
from on high, friend.
Stand and deliver their
salvation by knocking
them back to Earth.

Shattered and drifting,
flashing a signal of defeat,
could barely find
last useful bullet
in the dark.