gun dinner

all rich people's houses are confessions.
i am empty. i am hungry. i am searching. 
i saw a picture weeks ago of dr. phil's house.
he has a case of guns watching over
his dining room table. they are his children
or is it his children in a glass case & guns
sitting at the table. big guns & little guns.
guns to kill lovers & guns to kill enemies.
the myth of the intruder like a halo 
in the communion place. the truth is that
rich people cannot eat dinner. cannot break 
bread. instead they participate in mimicry 
on a large scale. the double doll house.
invite people over. talk to money. talk to guns.
i like to picture dr. phil sitting alone
at the end of his huge table. does he sit 
looking at the guns or with the guns behind him?
i imagine he asks himself the same question.
maybe he tries to consider where a stronger 
man than him might sit. the confession 
comes in medallions. my enemies are symbols
to me just like my weapons just like
my staircases just like my love. in my house
our table has only one chair because 
the other broke. it sits in the corner next
to the furnace. the windows soak us 
in night. none of my lovers are guns. 
we do not have to erect monuments to 
our emptiness. i keep nothing in a glass case. 
the dust, a blessing. our skin & hair & breath. 
the chairs made of guns. the chairs behind
glass. curtains drawn. night keeps them
at an arm's length. sleepless in a bed
of guns. may they never rest.