|Tony Fusco Media||
Second Amendment Rights and Wrong
I have a 38 Special on my ankle
It feels good. When I drive,
it adds weight to my accelerator.
I have a Beretta in my armpit
shoulder holster, It makes
me feel more secure than
I pack a Ruger 357 Magnum
in my book bag,
carry it in town It has my back.
I wear a Glock 9mm on my waist,
the Constitution guarantees it.
In Texas I can wear it out
where everyone can see it.
The Founding Fathers made it so.
I have a Mossberg 500 shotgun under my bed
helps me sleep at night
but only without the trigger lock in place.
My children are all grown up and anyway,
I don’t let the grandchildren in my room.
Walking one night I have a gun
held to my head on a dark street
and suddenly my life muzzle flashes
before my eyes.
What Sign Were You?
The stars have changed their heavenly ways;
great minds have done the math.
The constellations have slipped a bit
wandered off predicted paths.
No need to worry astrologers agree,
their charts are up to date;
corrections were made centuries ago
to safeguard your coming fate.
Some birthdays may have slid about,
enough to change your sign,
but all your readings done in the past,
hold their integrity just fine.
Our secret science are so exact
though suns and galaxies sway,
you can still count on them to predict tomorrow
so long as you’re willing to pay.
Francisco De Goya
The Colossus and the Conjuration
Dark is a way, and light is a place.
There it is, that tiny place of light;
you can see it in Goya’s paintings
even the haunting ones, the nightmares
of madness in old age.The Conjuration
of crones and witches suffocating
the cowering pure soul, infirm and weak
He wears his light, his white robe
washed in the blood of the Martyrs
of May Third 1808. The light of humanity
the great soul in the dark night asks the eternal question, why oh god, why in-the-world-of this-moment does it shine incandescent, flash frozen
as if lightning snapped a whip
on proud shoulders?
Maybe, pray maybe, with the Witches
in the air circling their victim, prone
at the mercy of the three sisters,
did the artist slip away under a shroud?
On a barely visible path, stage lit from above,
can we dream like a Colossus,
a blind Polyphemus who plows
the clods and muck to the crack
of sun setting brilliance
wades on through to that white
window into time immortal.