target practice

we shot a film
in philosophical black
we shot it full
of philosophical holes
we shot gnostic smoke in the lens
it smoldered frame by frame
we shot film
chock-full of stars and pop-up targets
as if film and philosophy were free
we shot clocks
like there's no tomorrow
and spent the time
shooting the night away
we shot clint eastwood
bit players and slim pickens
we tamed horses
burned mesquite logs
guns blazing
riding high
across a howling bullet moon
over the roiling ribbon
of the rio grande

 

by tres grandes hombres