Gunnicane

A poem about pitching scripts in Hollywood. (with apologies to Ed for filching his title)

“I don't know what that is,”

The producer says.

He tugs the collar of his pastel polo shirt

Impatient.

I'm making this up on the fly.

A hurricane, I explain to him

Pause to build tension--

Made of guns.

I know it's a terrible idea.

Perhaps the worst ever.

They request the script.

And I briefly consider writing it.

This, I realize, is why there are so many bad movies

“It can't just rain guns,”

Someone says

The producer is lolling his head

back and forth,

Shaking the idea around his skull,

Comparing it to equally terrible

Recent films that made money.

“The guns should be evil.”

They like to make story suggestions

Before they hear the story.

“We do mostly horror.”

 I remember they panned my first idea, saying

“That's impossible.”

Okay, I say

What if all the guns falling from the sky

Harbor demons

That speak to the bearer

And make them murder.

Murder-murder-murder

I mutter

In my best demon-possessed gun voice.

They ask about my vision for the cast

I start making up characters

Like Mayor Snude

And say I picture John Rhys Davies

Or Morgan Freeman.

And no one finds it hilarious that we're talking about

A hurricane

Made of guns

With demons in them.