THE HEART OF BULLETS

THE HEART OF BULLETS

WALKING THE DESERT
I came to a place of bullets, by the thousands — some, to casings — others, to spent bullet shells of the brass made. These lie in the sun like golden teeth — knocked out, scumbled in the sand, fragmented and dusted with other litter — charcoal, gun-powdered dust, the black of fused nitro, scented with metallic tinges — a tongue of burned remarks.

All in all, the masculine ground of things spent — mostly, to my take, wastefully. Where, the bullseye? Where, the precision? What, the target?

There are thousands of shotgunned shells, ripped bottles, cans — old signage bullet-holed, cans rusted to the quick: missile pierced cathedrals that glint in the glare.

Ants and spiders, chambered within.

Light shines through.

And the shells, piled — they show a heart of metallic nature, forged from the hunt, the boom, the punctured. And the war against nature.

Still, something good can come of any thing.

tsg | coconino wilderness, arizona

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GIRVIN | BUILDING BRANDSTORIES
EXPERIENCE DESIGN | THE STRATEGY OF MEMORY
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