It threatened rain,
so I got out my gun, got in the car
and gunned it on down to the graveyard,
where it was dark and nobody would know,
but I knew the clouds would see clear.
I got out and got my gun out,
fired myriad rounds at the atmosphere
and gunned down the clouds.
Fog fell in patches, then cleared.
I got my gun down,
headed for the car;
overhead stars started to appear
and I again began to breathe in fear.
The more fired at, the more the stars broke out.
I shot more and more flared up. I shot up
the sky, then drove home, sad as hell.
Shot the dog, shot the wife, shot my Playboys;
finally reloaded and waited for the sirens,
that never came. It began to rain.
I got in the car, backed out over the dog,
laid a patch on the wife’s ass,
got going real good and
gunned it on down to the graveyard,
where it was dark and nobody would know,
but I knew the clouds would see clear.
Willie Smith is deeply ashamed of being human. His work celebrates this horror. His story anthology NOTHING DOING is here: http://www.amazon.com/Nothing-Doing-Willie-Smith/dp/0956665896/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1343352354&sr=1–1&keywords=nothing+doing+willie+smith .
