“Slumber Party Massacre” © John Engstrom

 

Son of a Gun
2014

I admit…I came to America to make money…
Built a house…Sit in it…Open the window and look at the
sea…Birds…and bees…
Yes…I let my cat respond to the knock on the door…knock
knock…who is there? And my cat says…meow…
Only to realize the profound American love for legalized
corruption…often mistaken for freedom…as so patriotically
proclaimed.
And then:
I was lucky to listen to Mahalia Jackson singing the traditional
American spiritual:
“He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands”
not only being captivated by the simplicity of its magic words
or being fascinated by her innate musicality…
but being deeply touched by the genuine tears escaping her
eyes…
…With tears in my eyes…once I became an American…
So let me repeat:

He’s got the whole world…in His hands…
He’s got the whole world in His hands…
He’s got my brothers and my sisters…in His hands…
He’s got all mothers and fathers…in His hands…

And then:
He’s got a gun…in his hand
He’s got a mean gun…in his hand
He’s got a gun…in his hand
He’s had a bad…bad…day…and teach the world…

He shot a brother…in the head
He shot his big brother in the head…
He shot a sister…in the back
He shot his sweet little sister in the back…
He shot a mother…in her bed
He shot them all…in cold blood…dead…

He’s got an angry gun…on his mind…
He’s got an angry gun…in his ears…
He’s got an angry gun…up his nose…
He’s got an angry gun…in his mouth…
He’s got a target…in his mean eyes…
He’s got a target…in his cold sight…

And then:
Let’s not forget…
Let’s…not…forget:
The mean gunner…a misguided MAGA son
Misguided by legalized corruption
Misguided by an outdated 2nd Amendment…only
constitutional lawyers comprehend…
Misguided by a perverse interpretation of freedom…
Misguided by misguided shareholders…
As long as killing machines turn a profit…we don’t care…
Misguided by a misguided system…that promotes the right
to kill my world…

Yes

Now…he’s got a gun…in his hand
He’s had a mean gun…till his end…

And then:
He had the whole world…in one hand…
The same hand…that pulled that trigger…till his end…
The same hand…that dropped that blooded gun…what an
end…
and all the silver bullets…in his defense…do not help…do not
understand…

…He’s got no flowers…on his grave…
…He’s got no tears…that forgave…
And all that automatic gun…did not make him…that exceptional free…American man…

Yes…he’s had a violent gun…one of the best…
And I…
I have a painful knot…in my chest…

And then:
…He’s had the whole world…in his hands…
…He’s had my…whole world…in his hands…

Yes…guns don’t kill
I get it
But Americans loaded with guns…do…

 

Eike Waltz is an artist who walks across genres on a tightrope of talent and keen, precise vision. His poetry is informed by the varied span of his other abilities as a dancer, sculptor, orator, filmmaker, and more. His work is wrapped in colorful and textural layers of sensual detail. Even more, his work is informed by decades of experience across continents, sometimes barely surviving, sometimes exultant and triumphant. He carries the reader spinning through the stages of ecstasy and despair. Ripe fields explode into battlefields only to be lost in the depths of space or the rush of history in the endlessly shifting ethical exhortations full of wisdom. His poetry will stick with you and invite you back to gain new insights with each reading.

John Engstrom is a Boston-based artist-author-poet. A retired journalist-museum worker, he serves as Arts critic for the Fenway News. His collages and poems appear on Facebook and Divergents Magazine.