THERE'S A FALSE GUN
THERE’S A FALSE GUN
by Joe Hall
There’s a false gun, the off-camera trigger, a false spray
Of blood—Hung on an axis a spear is two stars probing
Its side in another life? With lip gloss somehow? The last
Piece of carbon paper Eucharist on some
Other tongue or ravenous representations’
Dwindling supply of woodsplitting recluse artists naked in the moonlight
Wrestling with a dwindling supply
Of warehouses to convert to lofts
Imitatable third world ritual, dwindling
Supply of bad-ass mother fuckers, of lists
To draw of things remembered
Of unexhausted ambiguous myths
Stance of poverty eroded into want and sickness
Less and less until the field reverses
Joe Hall’s first book of poems is Pigafetta Is My Wife (Black Ocean Press). The editors of Gulf Coast, HTMLGIANT, Rooms Outlast Us, Barrelhouse, Versal, Octopus, and other journals were kind enough to feature his poems and essays. He co-organizes the DC area reading series Cheryl’s Gone with Wade Fletcher. Other online work can be found at joehalljoehall.wordpress.com.