Buy One Book on Assault Rifles...#Poetry by Austin Davis

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.

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