I don’t know how I could be typing this.

Because I put a bullet through my brain.

Pop. Snap. Blam.

I know how I could be typing this.

Because I’m typing this.

This poem.

Before I pulled the trigger.

And now I’ll hit send.

And one of you,

will have to come to my studio

and clean up the bits and pieces

of brain matter

on my lap

and lap top

keyboard.

© 2004 David Greg Harth

04.03.24.21:04:12@296NYC