Glass Candy and Grapefruit.

It isn't enough for your heart to break because everybody's heart is broken now.

~Allen Ginsburg.

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Slipped on the wet floor of my dreams last night. The floor broke my fall and my spirit, but I was cajoled up by someone stronger than me, who convinced me to do ten star-jumps and carry on. So that is what I did. Broken spirit or not, there is life to be lived. It is a constant shot at a sanguine existence, with crooked sights from a long way back, but we pull the trigger and hope our aim is true.

Rarely do we hit the bullseye, but occasionally we come close.

And life is a moving target, so move with it we must. Adjusting our aim; re-positioning our bodies; laying our feet on the ground quietly, so as not to disturb the beasts we are trying to hunt down. And the longer we stay up-wind from them, the closer we get to toppling the wild animals that stand between our dreams and our realities. Ready? Aim. Fire.

Hmmm, gun talk. I feel like some pick-up driving red-neck, State-side, looking around at diversity like its coming personally to take all I hold dear from me at the end of a barrel. I've never been a hunter, or a weapons enthusiast. I had a fondness for the crossbow my Koro kept in his tool-shed when I was a child, but only for the romance the weapon invoked in my imagination. I could imagine my Koro, on horse-back, firing lethal arrows at enemies who were more monster than man. He wouldn't have enjoyed it, my Koro, but he would have completed the job, scooped me up in his arms and told me how good I was. I loved that man with all my tiny heart.

But guns, and killing generally? No. No, it is not me. I have heroes who were mad about them, and used them in all kinds of brilliant and crazy ways that make me grin from ear-to-ear when I read their exploits. I know good people, and bad, who are infected with the thrill of them. But I am not. Call me a priss, but my weapon is my pen, first and foremost, then my mouth, and then my fists. If the job cannot be taken care of using any of the three, then the job cannot be done by me.

And I like the way that is. Three weapons, all powerful in their own right, is more than many men will ever have. They are not enough to blow a foe off the face of the planet, nor leave them minus limbs or appendages. But they are enough, if needed, to leave an enemy mentally incapacitated. More is probably unnecessary, unless in times of extreme peril. But thus far I have stayed far enough away from situations where those three weapons were not enough. A day might come when I look back on these words with a wry grin, a knowing gleam in my eye, and a disfigured body or soul. But until that day, I stay avowed against the barrel.

So why are we talking about this? Who finds gun-talk interesting other than witless hunters and psychopaths? Who gets a rush from the kick of a high-powered weapon except men with no love in their souls and whores with no souls at all? Guns are like money. They can be used for good, very occasionally, or they can corrupt completely. And that, you twittering bell-birds, is the crux of the issue. I am corrupted enough without the need to speed up the process. But if we took all the guns from men who didn't deserve the use of them, we would not be much safer. Our worlds would still be fringed by the fear and loathing that HST saw more clearly than most.

I read of a man, he is only 27 or 28, on death-row in America. We'll say his name is Jim. Jim is a man who is clearly not fit for the world. He is crazy. Not just weird, or different, or angry. Jim is insane. The crime he committed to earn his death sentence is enough to chill the blood of most hard-hearted souls. Jim killed his wife, his son, and his infant step-daughter. He used a knife, stabbing each victim repeatedly. Then he used the knife to cut out their hearts. Oh, Jim, even I can see you are a few screws loose.

So, seeing Jim's instability, it doesn't come as a huge surprise to hear that on death row he pulled his own right eye out of his head using his fingers. Jim wasn't immediately shipped into a secure psychiatric unit where he could be observed at all times and kept safe from himself. Clearly, according to prison authorities, Jim was fit to look after himself in his cell. Thus, when last month Jim pulled out his remaining left eye using his own hands, and subsequently ate it, there was general concern that perhaps Jim wasn't fully in control of his mental state.

Now blind, Jim is under constant supervision to ensure safety from himself. He didn't need guns, he just need the apathy of a prison hierarchy. The man is insane, and therefore not fit to look after himself. Two eyes later, someone figured it out.

I guess when you are sucked into the system, you are at the whims of those who lock your doors, and allow you to get your meals. So, live wild if you need to, but keep your eye on where the rips in the beach are. Once you're sucked under, you'll need more than your two eyes to keep your head above the water.

What's the worst crime you've ever committed?