Buy One Book on Assault Rifles, Get One ‘Learn How to Not be a Dickwad’ Pamphlet Free by Austin Davis
This is an ode to the quote unquote “man” wearing black Ray Bans, ripped jean shorts, a conscious frayed at the seams, and a faded white shirt with the words “I’ll keep my guns and my freedom, you keep the change” written in striking bold letters
in front of a flaming motorcycle, the Bible, and the American flag who just dropped “13 Ways to Clean Your Gun” in front of me at my bookstore. Dear Mr. Supreme-Asswipe-of-American-Culture, I won’t KEEP the change, I’ll BE the change.
I want to tell you to stop looking at other women’s asses as they walk by, your wife is right there, dude. I want to tell you that mullets were never cool and that on average, one school was shot up every week this year.
Even a fucking blind red elephant tripping on the hardest acid could see that you must be praying to the wrong God because your thoughts and your prayers aren’t doing shit. I want to tell you
that based on the way your “white is right” keychain keeps sucking the sunlight from the room as you twirl it around your finger, the God you pray to probably owns more guns than he can count and watches Fox News more than he hugs his wife.
I bet the God you pray to tattooed racial slurs and sexist stereotypes under his tongue so the swastika that holds them all in place doesn’t make his mouth bleed. I have a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach,
you know, the kind you get after eating too many chili cheese dogs from QT, that your God hates poetry, record players, and 70 mm movie projectors and wouldn’t understand any of my philosophical jokes.
Sooner or later you’re going to realize that the God you pray to, the one with the beer belly and cloudy-day-eyes, the one choking the Bible as if it were a dead goose at Sunday supper, the one who breastfed Eve pornography and would’ve liked to trade her vocal cords for legs that open like a revolving door
is the same God that bears a striking resemblance to the man in the mirror, the douchebag with the beer belly and cloudy-day-eyes, the one choking the Bible as if it were a dead goose at Sunday supper, yelling at poor Margerie (she seems like a Margerie) as she anxiously sweeps up broken glass.
As you comb back your mullet and ready your hand for a cigarette, I want to tell you that Donald Trump has been throwing matches off his tower far longer than you’ve been getting drunk and hitting your kids. As you laugh at your own joke and reach out to grab your book, I can see in your watered down eyes that the screams of children being separated from their parents at the border doesn’t make you cry.
You know what? You don’t get a bag. Carry your murder manual back to the trailer park and roll home in your frozen bubble so you can fall asleep to the sound of Trump’s voice.
I’ll be here, re-reading the words inscribed at the base of our Statue of Liberty, sailing past these empty planets all alone, fishing in my yellow spacesuit for the stars you dropped like a bag of marbles in a field of sticky air and long grass so many years ago, compassion and empathy are just two dreams you’ve mostly forgotten.
I hope you enjoyed the newest poetry from Austin Davis. Purchase a paperback edition of his first collection, Cloudy Days, Still Nights by clicking the button below.