self-doubt. Accidental shooting myself in the dick. Because I should know better. But I don’t. I
don’t know whether to pull the trigger. When to pull the trigger. Why to pull the trigger.
She was the dove always perched upon the sill. Always. Familiar comfort and deep roots
entangled, pulling at each other through the red rubbery fragile clay. Arm wrestling in slow
motion with a thousand tendrils.
She’s back there now. Back before yesterday and the day before that. The roots aren’t fighting
each other anymore. They are growing in different directions now. The roots miss the touch, the
warmth, the intimacy of the battle.
I pulled the trigger. Brought peace to the subterranean battlefield. A sad lonely empty peace.
The dove remains. The dove is not hiding. The dove is still driving to work and working in her
garden and walking the dog. The dove is dancing and meeting new people and taking new lovers.
The dove will smell different the next time we meet.
So will I.
I’m afraid to pull the trigger again. I worry of damaging my roots further. Tearing the fibers.
Rendering them useless. Fear seeps in through the torn pores. The taste of blood in my mouth.
The buzzing of flies around my ankles. The stench of my tight puckered dirty asshole.
I breathe. I breathe and I wait and I keep on keeping on. And the world will happen if I never
make another decision and then I will not be to blame. I will be the guy who got shit upon
through no fault of my own. An innocent bystander on the shoulder of the highway. A victim of
random heartless violence.
But that’s not true and I know it. I can be more than a victim. I have the power to move things
and create a new universe. I just need to flip that switch, dial it up, pull that trigger.
I need to kill. I need to be able to kill. To take the life of another being without hesitation.
Without concern. Without indecisiveness.
Blood-soaked success smells like money in my mouth. Happiness with the taste of murder.
Disciplined deadly joyfulness.
I am a corporation. I am an organization with different levels. Managers managers and more
managers. Lovers and artists and bankers and insurance agents and fighters and killers. Layers
upon layers of complexity. I am the president. I can fire any of those motherfuckers I wanna.
Except for the dove.