Beige. Crescent moon. Too many pockets. Pockets that flap in the wind. Pockets holding cigarettes. Pockets. Beige. Crescent moon. Sand in the boots. Down the socks. In between toes.
A farm. With everything green and red. Green tractor. Red combine. Red barn. Green grass. Wheat. Corn. Burlap sacks bulging. Hands thick. Calloused. Dirt under fingernails.
Sand is not dirt. Sand in the boots and the socks and between the toes. Beige wash. Sun and crescent moon. Too many pockets. Pockets with snaps. Pockets with newspaper lining because his hands sweat and newspaper is inherently dry.
Inside of his gun is a bullet. He has three more in a pocket. Four more in another. One stow away in his pants. One tucked into a sock and letting in sand. With a rag he polishes. Makes the world shine. Polishes the gun and the universe black.
The farm had a dog named kipper. Here they eat dogs. Here the dogs are mongrels. Here the dogs howl in canvas colored alleys while people cut off their genitals. Here they are like the people. Like the difference between dirt and sand.
Putting a hole in a horse is like putting a hole in the enemy. Both are doomed. Both shake and whinny. Both are colored darker than human. One was on a farm in dirt where it was close up and he cared. One is here in the sand from a distance through a scope and without compassion or interest.
About the author:
J. A. Tyler is the author of THE GIRL IN THE BLACK SWEATER (Trainwreck Press), EVERYONE IN THIS IS EITHER DYING OR WILL DIE OR IS THINKING OF DEATH (Achilles Chapbook Series), SAMSARA (Paperhero Press), & SOMEONE, SOMEWHERE (Ghost Road Press). Visit www.aboutjatyler.com or www.aboutjatyler.blogspot.com for more info.
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