The Shooting Gallery
“Still life” portrait, you've focused these cameras angles off your shooting gallery. As these nurses taped up that pale blue door so you could function as a physician to yourself, & The type sheets blank... Curious & clean, but are these notebooks numbered? For they seem taken away in a green eye of flirtations, redialing for relapse!& Your just so unable to label what we have. Betrothed as you are to the past, as our present moment seems but a mere pinprick, & those watermarks brushed past your cheeks in perfect strokes. Centered in a place as unstable as your folks, & these traveling cities sleep in cycles, where winters were warm.Resident to a flightless bird,& you were a dock of dopamine, nevermore now but a dream. For erasing is at first a gamble before it becomes an art, as these smudged stories of paper figures are collections of its proof, & those sewer rats were shy in barrels of sunlight, that territory where their wavelengths were out of tune, but oh how they were taken in by those moments of a simple pleasure. That sense of acceptance I have yet to unearth inside,for he'd always been a man of words rather then a man of the world. As those stories of his forefathers were the only sentences that seemed to strike a chord, dope sick & bored,& They've eaten away our ambitions. Leaving only one motive. Perhaps only mystics or the magi could relate, & obsessive patterns ink the blank stare of those walls containing this shooting gallery, oh how I wonder if this place will ever be closed?