Kokomo robber who accidentally shot himself leaves hospital, gets booked.

There were four minutes of nonrecognition,
for my hand to move slowly down my chest, past there,
my legs strapped, my hand moving over clamps I can't see
from this angle but they caught my leg hair, so I know they exist,
working towards the tenderness.

The last thing I remember
was telling my grandmother
I was going out to get beer, maybe dinner, taking her car keys, heading out and then
Flashing back to a moment after highschool where all I could do
Was hold down the gas in the only car I ever bought, keeping it in park,
‘till I ran out of gas.
When I got home that day, I couldn’t bring myself to flip the switch of the garage light.
I tripped over road salt and snow tires and knocked my foot out of place.
It sounds easier than it was.
I was never one for graceful exits.

About the Author: Gabriel Kalmuss-Katz currently lives in Chicago, but will soon be abandoning the midwest to begin the MFA Program at UC-San Diego.  His work has been published in Juncture, 80 Minutes for Life, and Curbside Splendor. He blogs about music at Songs Save Lives and co-runs Na Zdravi Na Shledanou Press with the poet Naomi Schub.