S.A.W.

Mechanized,

proceeding on reflex,

a dead hand grasps

the pistol grip.

Without bearer,

it squeezes off

5.56 at

the silhouettes.

They fall:

instant feedback.

Like dopamine impulse

belt-fed

from your living room

to the battlefield.

Don’t think.

Must not think.

No time—

only silhouettes;

down range;

trying to kill me.

Pixels, not boys.

Hajis, not humans.