Tribe

First time I handled a gun
I got a hard-on; I was eleven.
You’re not a man till
you’ve dropped someone.
Dash my name in red
I’m a celebrity
heads lower for me.
God is great. 
We ride into a town
with our assault rifles,
rocket-propelled grenades
and they’re dribbling
sweat, their eyes roll.
This one old farmer
I slaughtered him like a ram.
I do this, I
stake a seat in paradise.
Got to watch you don’t
twist an ankle
tripping on the bodies,
their stiff sandalled feet.
After we all feel good
it gets the hurt out.
By nightfall
we’re laughing, cheering
someone starts dancing;
maybe it’s you.