The guns.  I want
the guns.
First the knives and then
the guns.
All the guns.
All of them,
and then the bombs.
The ships after that,
maybe the planes, and that
might be enough.
Knives for the close-by,
guns for the intermediate, bombs
for the absentee moments,
missiles and planes
and gunboats to project
what I cannot 
do with my own hands.
And thinking now
of what one can do
with computers
and with banks, I need
some of those too.
Knives, guns, bombs,
missiles, planes, ships,
computers, banks,
markets, stocks,
lies, half-truths,
statistics,
money, money, money,
myths of social constructs
and colorblind generations,
flags, elections,
eclectics, stories, art, music,
schools that bind hands
to the will of other hands.
I want all the guns
because the tears
haven’t helped, the words
and songs haven’t helped,
the simple reach of saying
this is wrong has never helped.
I want guns
to weight the lifelines
I need to throw
because that flood
of everything else that’s arrayed against me
is rising  
and though I understand
what a gun does
far better than you do,
I want them anyway because
there seems to be
so little else
I do understand
about what it takes these days
to win and not lose,
to not starve or despair, 
to not drown,
not burn,
not die.