The bubble of your fear buys you a gun. Your
new automatic fingers embody fear, load up, and get itchy. The bubble swells
inside the barrel to bursting. The automatic metallic mind in your hand makes
your prissy wet and your colic hard.
The neighbor’s dogs bark. They growl and
cower. “Kill! Kill!” they bark, for they hate the people on the other side of
the fence. The fence is their bubble, their defenestrating defense, the wall
between their cowardice and false courage. “Kill! Kill!” they bark on the
internet. “We love Jesus!”
Jesus loads his gun. He is afraid too.
afraid of Christmas. of not being believed in. of the bad thief—he might be
black. of the other side of town. of Muslims who hate his “way of life” crowned
by death on every corner. There’s no other way out.
Mostly Jesus shoots his wife. or his wife
shoots him (they are not always sober). Occasionally Jesus shoots up a
school—but that is his own personal responsibility. Jesus, after all, will live
forever. unless he decides to shoot himself—which is the most common use of a
handgun in the United States of Jesus.
There is no greater hatred than the hatred
of he who would take his own life for the fear of his fellow man.
All hail the gun, lord of lords and king of
kings. To call for mercy is to know that the gun knows no such thing.
12/27/2014
Florence
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