THE BANDOLERO Somewhere out west an old bandolero loads up his gun: one bullet for two men, in his head the math makes sense. "No one's ever killed god, though not for lack of trying," and looking down the barrel of his gun the old crook thinks he's got a shot. Of course no one tells him he's looking the wrong way round, but then again, maybe the old crook knows something of the truth, that the only god worth killing hides behind the eyes— his iris universe like shattered starlight. All the meaning in the world couldn't fill this empty sky.