My gunslinging days have long since expired. The new lands were charted, my old hands are tired from spinning and pulling and flicking my steel, palm permanently bruised at the heel from striking the foreheads of lawless degenerates. The west has been settled, I remember it best in the minutes before I wake up. When it’s almost wholly formed solid enough for me to step into, all sepia toned. The tumble weeds blew and the biplane props droned in the dust flavored air years before you were there – pausing for reactions at the top of the stair.

My gunslinging jeans barely fit anymore. The suburbs brought houses and bus routes and stores so I only go out at night when it’s quiet. I still have the pistol; I’m too scared to try it for fear of the neighbors calling the police. I look at my pictures and do not see me but a really good movie I saw a lot once. The details are blurry; the gun weighs a ton. The hands lost their smoothness, their deftness, their poise. A trembling has found its way into my voice. And I do not know what to do with myself.


~ by perfectionatrix on October 21, 2010.

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