121 ~ Gun Poem by stan pelfrey

Son, I'm sorry, but I have to leave,
the paper's come, and you're not naive.
Take good care,
watch the family-
I'm tripping abroad.

A leaf swept by a dull hand
farewelling all in unchosen bland,
the soft-fire youth
forced to make stand-
I'm feeling numb.

God, why am I here?
In this desert-blood place,
driven to this corner, nowhere to face.

On the threshold of reality
looking out on a whistle-war tree,
shake a branch and
let fall the leaves-
I'm shooting truth.

Stand the middle of desert-nothing
clinching to an airy-flag wing,
flap east/west
bombs ignite sting-
I'm losing eyes.

God, why am I here?
In this desert-blood place,
driven to this corner, nowhere to face.

Get me back to the bunker,
turn my face to the Sun,
leave me here in Ohio,
see my crux-nurtured gun!

Lust of open-languid dreams
filling with empirial themes,
recite speeches to
wrinkle home teams-
I'm playing tail.

Pressing questions of brass-buttoned end
blow in the stew of fat-cross wind,
reeks the soul
and kins ascend-
I've left flush.

God, what is my name?
Who am I now? Where have I been?
When will I find out?

Get me to Paradise,
hold me right to my son,
keep my name to my family,
rest my rust-natured gun!
Go unanswered now-
go unanswered now!