atomic ray gun briefcase 

i want to be a professional craver.
excavating the yard for time capsules 
i find nothing of the sort. decide 
if i am going to find the past
i will need to sell something antique.
in the meantime, we all have to defend our homes 
against the threat of delight.
i read in a magazine too much bliss can
infect a person & make them radio active.
who knows what kind of career
waits for us on the other side
of the glass. i buy a suite & hand it
on the back of the bathroom door 
so long that it grows moss & then
a personality of its own. each morning
it says, "back to the old grind"
before chuckling to itself.
there is nothing beautiful about 
pulverizing my fragments of joy 
into sugar to be eaten. i carry 
a spoon in my pocket next to my ray gun.
it doesn't shoot don't worry. it's just
a replica of what we should fear.
sometimes i worry that i am also
in a replica. that a creature hunched over
& set each corner of my world
in the hopes of showing a lover
what it could all be like. 
secretly, the brief case is empty
leaving enough room in case i pass
a deer skeleton. then i can stock up
for the next time i need to change species.
when i had no job i was thinking
"i will do anything to have a paycheck"
& now i wonder if i could carve myself
into the heart of a tree & sleep there
until the world is nothing but smoke.
click of each buckle. how long have you
let yourself shut? i walk out into the yard.
i lied just a little bit. i never tested
the ray gun so it could be a replica
or it could be the real deal. 
i'm wearing my best loafers 
in the damp muddy yard. aiming the gun
up at the clouds. a sherbert sunset
i pull the slick metal trigger.

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