Shopping Cart
    items

      July 14, 2012Dillinger is DeadPaul Hlava

      Each gas mask is tested at the end
      of the assembly line. I stand in a glass chamber
      where pale gas erases the laboratory.
      A man taps on the door. A thumbs-up means
      I am not unconscious. Each object
      is given a name, stamped in rubber on
      the conveyor belt: goggles, circular filter,
      pin to pull from the mouthpiece’s hose
      and let the outside in. I leave the warehouse.
      I travel 45 mph, stop twice at red lights,
      and park in a lot behind the yellow arm
      of a toll-booth. Rent is due.
      Knives and forks are in the kitchen drawers.
      Art is hanging on the wall. The TV flashes
      a battleship and broken champagne bottle,
      a cartoon bear who advertises toilet paper.
      When a cookbook falls from the closet,
      I discover the old pistol. I dice chives,
      slice a taut bulb of garlic, dismantle the gun.
      I heat a pan, drop into it a deep red cut of beef,
      brush the rusty trigger with a sponge.
      I add bullion to boiling water, add fat and bone,
      the diced vegetables. The battleship advances
      on TV and a woman is dancing in her underwear.
      I pick at the discolored firing pin and rub it
      with olive oil. I serve myself
      a thick cut of meat. I put the gun parts
      in a bowl, and sit down to eat.

      from #36 - Winter 2011