21 SHORT POEMS or THE GUN

 
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There is a gun in the closet.
There are many things in the closet.
 

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An extremely small man
may ride on a gun
like a horse,
a black horse.
 
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If a monster with seven heads
stood at the gate,
I would shoot without hesitation,
but the open gate
scares me.
 
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The judge always acquits the gun.
Naïve judge.     
 
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I had an unforgettable face
and a white gun.
 
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A gun isn’t a metaphor.
 
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My uncle     has two guns
My uncle     has a basement in Givatayim
My uncle     has a life.
 
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My gun
loves people.
 
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The bullet sings its little song
in the air, a simple song. 
 
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The contours of the gun are imaginary.
 
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The song of the gun
is
a wordless song.
 
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This time the gun is aimed at us.
At our live flesh.
At our beating arteries.
At our ridiculous faith in what is called life.
We say: a gun is absurd.
And we’re sure that by saying this sentence,
composed of four words,
we have undone the threat.
 
*

I hand out (cheap) pens, guns
and towels.
All are useful.
 
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The guns sell out quickly in the stores.
The saleswomen are horrified.
This city stinks.
 
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This gun makes a hole in my head.
 
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It is possible to give up carrying guns
and writing poems.
 
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A gun without questions.
A gun without answers.
 
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It’s a pretty lie.
If you shoot it,
you will wipe out the lie,
and memorialize its beauty.
Such beauty will be an eternal witness
to your cruelty and good taste.
 
*

The hand shakes.
The hand smiles.
 
*

Tonight is the mouth of a gun
we stare into
dully and stupidly
after we are shot.
 
*

Lovely gun.

21 SHORT POEMS or THE GUN