Dragged here by my friend,I see nothing poetic. I hear nothing poetic.Just crack and zing and boom.Crack and zing and boom.In the booth next to us,a big guy shoots an AK-47.In my hands, I hold a rifle.I sit atop a stool. The same thumbthat rests on the stocksupports the shaft of a pencil. The same... Continue Reading →
A Poet’s First Time at a Shooting Range
