The situation handcuffed my eyes
to the sun’s glint off the gun barrel.
Being the seventh in line,
the six-shooter required attention
before it could speak my name
with its curious thunder.
The man reloading the chambers one by one
muttered about the moon always looking down at him
and how its pointed gaze pierced him
like unasked questions delivered on arrowheads.
About the time I heard the cylinder snap shut
uncountable bison burst five dimensional walls
at a dead run stampede
and pulverized all in their galloping path.
I hung on to the curl of a dogeared memory
just outside this trampling.
copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney
I have no clue where this poem came from out of the depths of my brain, while trout fishing in my stream of consciousness. It presented itself on the page (screen) in less than 2 minutes, spewing itself out with little need for editing. The images are rather gruesome. But, it is nice knowing a herd of pan-dimensional buffalo will save me some day. Whether on purpose or by serendipity is yet to be discovered. I assume they will save me metaphysically, but would it not be meme-bait if it happened in reality and someone got it recorded and uploaded.