Nature gives you two loud gunshots &
a large lemonade & tells you: that’s it.
Learn to love it or leave it.  You decide
to learn to love it, & three weeks later
another gift; This time it’s in your state,
and without any damn ice.  Again,
Nature gives you the same ultimatum.
There are two ways out—by bullet
or by mouth—and you & I both know
which way you’d prefer.

Bullet holes in Time Magazine pages
from used magazine cartridges

are the numbered dots we connect
for fun. I trace from 6,740 to 6,741

& it’s just July & it’s just deaths
& it’s just America. I grew up with

firearms in my house.
When I was younger, punishment

meant going to the rifle range
with my state trooper

father. Bullet holes
in Time Magazine pages

are the constellations
of my zodiac—I am

not a Capricorn. I am
a Remington. Have you ever

spent time pondering Washington
stars? Remind me

once more. My memory is hazy.
When you’re out here in Michigan, kids

speak in Morse code
& nicknames. When you’re out

here in Michigan, kids speak
in lipstick & fish scales. Out here

in Michigan, kids fly
the confederate flag & you know

it must be about race, because we were
once a part of the Union,

so you must not want to secede.
I can tell you the difference

between a mass & a serial
& a spree, & it’s not the candy. We are

millennials. We know
a cold case when we see one.