Legislation to put guns in schools has been discussed, but I say, a gun is only as safe as the person who holds it. There's something about a gun that certain types of people can't understand: It kills. But crime of all crimes is, killing for sport--whether it's aimed at people or animals.

The head of an active male
                              -prose poem by EmH Johnson

A predator knows the feeling of love–loaded gun, sharp hunting knife, the head of an active male. Love is ripping the face from a lion, watching the blood spill and clot into a shiny mask of screaming red and burgundy undertones, yellow eyes grown vengeful and cold, the slit openings now round as black marbles, a muffled roar more like a grumble, drooping head as though disgraced in being so exposed.

But not every ounce of the animal is defiled. A subtle defiance remains and you can feel the hot breath of its existence. The breathing in and out, slow and melodic, is soothing to the ear; a pair of gigantic paws and outstretched claws served their master well. The head and coat must be carefully preserved. I savor thought of frenzied bidding at the open marketplace and ponder the final price to be paid for a trophy brought down in such an explosive escapade.

Taking the life of something beautiful comes easy when you keep your wits about you, keep your emotions in check so that you rise above the fray. They want to shut it down, the killing, but it serves a purpose. It’s giving humanitarian aid to those starving in places you never want to see, not really, especially not the children. You simply want to pay for the thrill of it, nothing more. The fat cats up on The Hill want to take our guns, but it’s not the firearms. It’s the absence of fire in my soul. I kill so I can live peacefully. I will die fighting for my constitutional right, unlike the lion. It fights because that’s what a lion does, nothing more or less.