Just a .22
I stepped up to the challenge, what else was I to do?
I knew that, given half the chance, he'd love to kill me, too.
I shot at him a few times, and missed- my aim untrue.
He and I both out of rounds, as six-shooters often do.
I don't know who he was, but that didn't matter, see-
I knew what I had to do, there was someone there with me,
Telling me what to do, but not helping in the least.
Struggling to reload, I knew I had to kill this beast.
Caught in something shameful, I look back and realize.
But the scales of desperation sealed up my human eyes.
Walking around the bar stool, I feared his great-big size.
I yelled at him my warning; there were no mindful replies.
I poured my box of bullets all on the wood table.
We'd soon see (when reloading our guns) which was more able.
I didn't take the time to fill the whole revolver.
Didn't think I needed six shots for this problem-solver.
I spun the cylinder round, to line up his death wish.
Sensing death, for harsh cold words of hate I started to fish.
I pulled the trigger, no shot was heard- what luck is this?
Laughing now, he had a chance to reload, pure vengeful bliss.
I ran back to the table, being a quick little man,
And put all of the bullets in, just as fast as I can.
I pulled the trigger again, this time over and over.
I was relieved as I saw the whole of him slouch over.
He got off a few shots, but missed with every one.
Seeing him fall, I knew that I'd won.
Putting bullets in a man sure ain't any fun.
And I knew a darker chapter in my life had begun.
Two rounds had failed, three hit his chest;
The last was most violet- in his forehead it rest.
Now that he was dead, I thought I was blessed.
That fact that I'd killed him left me oddly unstressed.
I ran over to him, and he slumped into my arm.
Sorry that he had to die; sorry I had done that harm.
I caught him, said a few words- seemed the thing to do.
Though just what I said, I couldn't tell you.
Dead, I let his body fall to the floor.
He wouldn't shoot back at me anymore.
And then I woke up.
Weird, huh? That was the weirdest dream I've had in a long time. But man, he's way dead. I put that last shot right in over his eye. Which is ridiculous. I was shooting dad's Smith & Wesson. I can't hit the broad side of a barn with a Smith & Wesson bull-nose pistol. When he started dying, I ran over to him and kinda caught him as he fell off his stool. I don't remember what I said to him, whether it was witnessing or what. I remember that I had known him at one time, which makes it that much stranger that I ended up in a situation of having to shoot him. But it was him or me. So why wasn't he really trying to shoot me? It's almost like he put up a fake fight.
Why did he let me kill him?
I knew that, given half the chance, he'd love to kill me, too.
I shot at him a few times, and missed- my aim untrue.
He and I both out of rounds, as six-shooters often do.
I don't know who he was, but that didn't matter, see-
I knew what I had to do, there was someone there with me,
Telling me what to do, but not helping in the least.
Struggling to reload, I knew I had to kill this beast.
Caught in something shameful, I look back and realize.
But the scales of desperation sealed up my human eyes.
Walking around the bar stool, I feared his great-big size.
I yelled at him my warning; there were no mindful replies.
I poured my box of bullets all on the wood table.
We'd soon see (when reloading our guns) which was more able.
I didn't take the time to fill the whole revolver.
Didn't think I needed six shots for this problem-solver.
I spun the cylinder round, to line up his death wish.
Sensing death, for harsh cold words of hate I started to fish.
I pulled the trigger, no shot was heard- what luck is this?
Laughing now, he had a chance to reload, pure vengeful bliss.
I ran back to the table, being a quick little man,
And put all of the bullets in, just as fast as I can.
I pulled the trigger again, this time over and over.
I was relieved as I saw the whole of him slouch over.
He got off a few shots, but missed with every one.
Seeing him fall, I knew that I'd won.
Putting bullets in a man sure ain't any fun.
And I knew a darker chapter in my life had begun.
Two rounds had failed, three hit his chest;
The last was most violet- in his forehead it rest.
Now that he was dead, I thought I was blessed.
That fact that I'd killed him left me oddly unstressed.
I ran over to him, and he slumped into my arm.
Sorry that he had to die; sorry I had done that harm.
I caught him, said a few words- seemed the thing to do.
Though just what I said, I couldn't tell you.
Dead, I let his body fall to the floor.
He wouldn't shoot back at me anymore.
And then I woke up.
Weird, huh? That was the weirdest dream I've had in a long time. But man, he's way dead. I put that last shot right in over his eye. Which is ridiculous. I was shooting dad's Smith & Wesson. I can't hit the broad side of a barn with a Smith & Wesson bull-nose pistol. When he started dying, I ran over to him and kinda caught him as he fell off his stool. I don't remember what I said to him, whether it was witnessing or what. I remember that I had known him at one time, which makes it that much stranger that I ended up in a situation of having to shoot him. But it was him or me. So why wasn't he really trying to shoot me? It's almost like he put up a fake fight.
Why did he let me kill him?
posted by Elmo at 9:28 AM
2 Comments:
Wow, great poem! its flow and eloquence is genuinely masterful. hope i could be so enlightened by a dream!
yes, 'disenchanted' is my word for my days back, too. i don't feel flirtacious, marvelled or spellbound. My lifestyle that i left behind in May has not caught up to me yet; i'm still bored by television, roads, the niceness of things, and the flat unruggedness. I'm going to have to get used to this again, and that might take awhile. Meanwhile, i am anxious to return to flying because flying has become synonomous with Alaska.
I went in for my interview with Linda and Rosemary at Legacy Aviation this afternoon. They are a pleasure to talk with and be around, and in the 1 1/2 hours we spent together, I think they formed a liking toward me. I'm praying that God does lean their hearts to favor me, for another applicant interviewed behind me, because i very much want this job. At the outset, it appears i may have opportunity to utilize each of my experiences as an instructor, mechanic, writer and Alaska-seasoned pilot. So please pray that this comes to pass!
im glad we had that chat tonite randy. by the way that is a really good poem. just in and of itself. you should send it to my sister (an aspiring poet herself) and see what she thinks
dont tell her it was a dream or anyting just ask her about the poem. im serious -keith
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