We won't walk with minor footsteps on the frozen terrain
with our rifles in hand, fingers pointed at the sky,
shooting stars in a new divine light epitomized by frozen February.
We point our barrels to what we can't see:
ghosts of our futures with diplomas and straw hats,
dancing coffins held stiff, stable skeleton keys,
men making love to their bleeding hands,
girls in pink dresses that end above their waistline,
the obscene delusion on top of our bruises,
hiding beneath our fractured skull caps.
We say "point it at me"
'cause knowing the truth is half the game while playing it is simple,
like smiling and lying simultaneously
or shrinking away from past lovers who catch your swollen eye
or middle-aged men with broken teeth molding catastrophe with sweaty palms,
as if their world isn't real at all.