Jesse A. James

Smoking gun

I count my mistakes

by the brown filter shell casings

That fall from my mouth–

Chamber still smoking as I load

The next round.

My brothers taught me how to shoot

and I keep ‘em pretty straight,

But it seems silly to brag

when I’m aiming

At my own chest.

Hands shaking as

I load another bullet

Thinking about how my

Dad’s been shot up

Pretty bad-

And he’s left himself smoldering

On a bed hundreds of

Miles away.

And I say that to say,

I’ve stayed hundreds of

Miles away.

He’s taught me

How to love a family

By leaving one.

I can roof a house,

But I can’t seem to figure out

What goes on underneath one.

He’s taught me a lot about

What to be

By just choosing

Not to be.

He taught me this one too,

And it seems I caught on pretty quick.

Another shell

Falls on the pavement.

As I reload

The chamber backfires.

Tar and spit

Fling forth-

Choked by carbon monoxide

And sulfur.

While an unwilling

barrel cleans itself—

my now resolute hands

Deftly shake another

Cigarette

From a soft pack of

Marlboro red

cowboy killers

Laughing because

Ol’ Wild Bill named his sons

Billy the Kid,

John Wayne, and

Jesse James.

Feature 2

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Feature 3

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nonsense for now