Poem for Ammosexuals : NaPoWriMo #21

Ammosexual

There’s just something about a man
with a big package
concealed and carried or swinging free.
Is that a 9mm in your pants,
or are you just happy to see me?

Bullets and barrels are cylindrical
and the way they fit inside my mouth
can’t just be coincidental,
I’d suck fire from his machine gun
know what I’m sayin’?

I don’t mind unsolicited glock pics,
they get me hard like a carbine,
make me want to fuck in gun oil,
to taste metal in sweat and saliva,
to feel the sensation of steel

as it slides and glides
inside my locked and lubed ass,
a cold but pleasant penetration,
then maybe we 69,
his hands around my pistol-grip stock

and my lips and tongue stroking
the long rigid shaft,
fingers probing inside dark empty holes,
a night echoed with our gunshot moans
until we’re both spent, filled with hot lead.

Death factories : NaPoWriMo #19

Life in a firearm factory

America the assembly line
of machined metal and mechanized death,
the safety-goggled eyes and oily hands
wiped on aprons like butchers
in a meat shop, the tiny screwdrivers,
etching tools, and the steadfast resolve
of building that which built a nation with death.

Inspected for quality, inspected for failure rate,
inspected for accuracy, inspected for safety,
each weapon fired at least forty times
past the door that forbids loaded firearms
of any kind, except the ones made inside,
hand-crafted and precision-assured,
checked to insure deliverance
is an unimpeded death.

The workers file in six days a week,
they punch their time cards
and sip their coffee from stainless steel,
they store lunches of sandwiches
wrapped in plastic and potato chip bags
in latched boxes in lockers,
they watch the clock just like you,
counting the minutes until shift’s end,
those hours between themselves
and the faces of their husbands and wives,
the welcome comfort of clean sheets and a pillow,
the warmth of a lover’s body
next to them at night, a sleep-weighted arm
draped over their waist like waiting death.

It’s a job like any other job,
except in the ways it isn’t,
each weapon cleared for shipment
a potential murder or guaranteed tool of war,
a serial number traced by the ATF or the FBI,
another statistic measured and cited
on the nightly news alongside images
of their week’s work with death.

This pistol stopped a robbery,
this pistol was used in a robbery,
this pistol shot a single mother,
this pistol was fired by that single mother’s son,
this rifle held off insurgents,
this rifle was used by an insurgent,
this rifle took 17 lives, took 22 lives,
took 26 lives, took 42 lives,
in Texas, in Florida, in Connecticut, in Nevada,
this rifle did just what is was supposed to do,
I built it, inspected it, went over every millimeter
before sending it out into the world
like a parent hoping the best
for his children with death,
and this is the right of every American.

Repealing the 2nd Amendment : NaPoWriMo #18

Repeal

Impossible to repeel a banana
once the skin is off—
the fruit must be eaten
before the air turns it black,
like a buckshot poison for the gut.

Impossible to retract words
once expelled from the throat
through the tongue teeth and lips,
no ticky tack paper to be rewound
into the lungs on a spool,
no apology to make the spoken unmouthed.

Impossible to unbreak a law
a mirror a precious vase
hurled against a wall,
the criminality remains
like spiderweb scars
caked white with dried glue
in the cracks of the skin.

Impossible to unchange
that which has changed,
to put every stone
back in its home on the range,
to shovel the snows
back to the peak the avalanche unleashed,
to uncarve the canyons
and straighten the rivers once snaked,
to smooth all wrinkles
from a traumatized brain.

Impossible to unpull a trigger
once it has been pulled,
no bullets on strings
stopped and reversed
at the cock of a hammer
or pulse of the heart,
the shot will stay shot
as the dead will stay dead,
even if you remove the slugs
from their bodies or their heads.

What’s done cannot be undone,
what’s made not unmade,
only destroyed burned down
dismantled piece by fucking piece
like an empire of matchsticks
oblivious to the frictions
of their blue tips against red tips
working like a war on common sense
until smoke becomes spark
becomes a heaping mound of ash
for others to write their declarations in
and start the whole damned thing over again.

Poem for the Second Amendment : NaPoWriMo #16

Needs of a gun enthusiast

I don’t need a gun
to tell you I love you,
to know the anxiety of your absence
like a tiny corset pulled taut
around my still fluttering heart.

I don’t need a gun
to watch the moon appear like a dime
in the blue haze
of a wishing well sky,
and to wonder what it reveals
about a person, which face they see
in the Rorschach canyons
and deep crater shadows.

I don’t need a gun
to stir my mashed potatoes
in with the brown gravy,
to move my food around my plate
like river churned silt
instead of eating
when I’ve lost my appetite.

I don’t need a gun
to protect myself
from the ambient sounds
of an empty-except-me house,
the creeping footsteps
of rain begging for change.

I don’t need a gun
to become a criminal,
to touch that which isn’t mine,
to discern the nuance
of a painting’s pebbly imperfections
stroking my finger through the landscape
centuries old on a museum wall.

I don’t need a gun
to write my poetry,
each line like a gentle suicide
that never takes my life,
just pushes me a little closer
to those crosshairs
where time and chaos collide.

Poem for Anthony Borges : NaPoWriMo #12

Between Death and a Door
~for Anthony Borges

Death doesn’t knock upon the door,
it demands to be let through,
but there are those who refuse to listen.

These seconds seem small
waiting to die, nothing between the end
and the now except this barricade
of flesh leaned against hard wood
and heartbeats pushing blood
out of the body and onto the floor.

This act is selfless, to stand
in defense of the helpless,
to feel an entire existence
kept in the balance
while something faceless
sends its bullets ripping
with white noise and white flashes
through muscle, through lung,
through sound shattered bone.

Five strikes of the iron bell
to stave off twenty more,
five ear-splitting bangs
of skeletal fist pounding
against one shaking frame,
five brushes of bony fingers
against tear-streaked cheeks,
a world condensed down
to the scent of cauterized skin,
to the sound of shrieks,
to the sensation of breath
as a dissipating echo
in the mind.

And when you wake up
in the hospital bed,
your body feels less than your own,
a host of surgical scars
and open wounds no suture can close,
you hear them call you hero,
but you know it isn’t so
you just did what had to be done,
and now, just want to be left alone,
to heal, to feel time return itself
back to that steady second hand
where every tick of the clock
isn’t another triggered gunshot.

Death doesn’t knock upon the door,
it demands to be let through,
but you, you refused to listen.