Finger Guns

You walk in. He pretends to shoot you.
Finger guns blazing with flint-lock nostalgia;
He calls the shots, trespassing between the shadows
Of past and present.
Somewhere along the wire you trip
Fall thirty meters up
A place you call "Paradise"
But reeks of starvation; the bitter taste of
Days' old nothings hands like snaggle-teeth
In your mouth.
You want to spit it out, but instead you swallow
Wait for the fire in your stomach
To heat up branding irons in your face
Casts silhouettes of a smile on the back of your forehead
Somewhere where memories are kept.
But you can't remember.
You think they're just shadow puppets,
Signing the language of a time you spent asleep
The letters like blue powder hardened with
Brandy, hints of a chin on your shoulder.
You watch the world in dusty Chaplin
Before you color it in with childhood paint,
Find the roots of yourself and dig up the weeds
Till you can stand, barefoot before you mirror
And smile, as he pretends to shoot you.