Weapon of Choice

You've always looked
to the moon
for target practice,
looking to shoot
straight through its
cast white face

man invented gunpowder
two thousand years ago
in China
looking to fire
rockets
to puncture the waiting
insistent
moon

the sky arches rhythmically
and we gotta want to blow
a damn hole it in,
pierce through from
this world in to the next
somewhere in our DNA
there's instructions
to fire wildly at the sky
and hope you can tear right
through it
and you were always more gunpowder
than nicotine and damn I think I felt the blood rush to my head again and it looks like I'm outta whiskey so I wonder if I can't draw this drunk out till sunrise