Luke Shuttleworth

Waiting for Thunder

I shot my last animal two months ago.
Took down a dog at 70 yards
with a .40 caliber Glock,
loaded with Ranger SXT ammo.

He bucked when I hit him,
dropped and lay squirming,
yelping for three minutes
before he weakened and gave in.

Left him where he fell for a coyote's supper,
under a bloodstained sagebrush,
eyes gazing skyward waiting for the moon to rise,
glowing white across high desert.

Been living in the sage six months now,
dust-devils my only visiting friends.
Spring brings thunder most every night,
But rain rarely falls out here.

I pour myself the Mezcal I have left,
watch the worm settle to the bottom of the glass,
and look out my window for any movement,
any reason to pull my pistol and kill the boredom.

The only things moving in the grey dusk
are tumbleweeds blowing carefree,
their destination a barbed wire fence
where they can feed the next dry lightning fire.


Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride

Thoughts for Hunter S. Thompson

This morning I sit smoking on the front porch, taking shots
at wild cats with my .454 Raging Bull as they slink from the light,
think how I ought to go to town and rent a pearl white Cadillac
convertible with every goddamn power option,
load it up with Wild Turkey, a full arsenal of foreign weaponry, and drive
to Woody Creek, to your Pitkin County ranch,
where the people once failed themselves by not electing you
Sheriff and regulator of drug pricing.

I would spend the day on your shooting range, that has been silent
since they shot you from a cannon, mounted on top of the Gonzo fist,
launched with green, red, blue, and white fireworks.
Everyone watched for fifty miles and stood in awe as the sparks faded.
Wish I could have been there to inhale a little
of your remains, Blasted ash turned to finer ash, blending
with the air around, raining down across the mountains
and into the streams to be carried to rivers and down to the sea.

And in those brief flashing moments of colored sparks,
A few people claimed they saw you, stoned on the tails
of shooting stars, burning up every last bit of cosmic dust
and astral debris, shaking your fist at the world below