JSA Lowe

Insuficient libations and to the wrong gods. Almost always the culprit   
A Sig Sauer and a Glock. With a handgun you have to take aim 
and shoot  it s not like an automatic  you can t just fire into a crowd.
Garden of kinder, our child-flowers, in the parking lot I watch a strange   
woman waving enthusiastically to a baby who blinks and waves back, are we not filled   
with something? If not love then love, the entire species focused on our most   
vulnerable (aim and shoot) but let's not get off point, can we not admit that three   
dozen dead, some children, many childre, is considered a good day's work for a   
drone pilot. One .223-caliber rifle kept in the trunk of a car. Your narrow waist.   
The dialectic of enoughness which exceeds adequacy, the narratives of scarcity,   
how complex and how luscious that complexity; how painful and vital. My   
right palm smells sweet, like a handjob, like cunt and saliva, like when you   
drop off, breathe in soft jerks, drowse, your laptop's hum low. I pull up the duvet   
protectively, I am not going to love anyone but if I did it would be, Outside,   
banana plants and palm trees, our street's landscaping invisible to passers-by. No.   
With a handgun you have to point, it's not like an automatic, you can't just fire. 
Almost always the culprit. Insufficient libations, and to all the wrong gods.