This is a very tough poem to write and its still not done. Tough topic, tough to not sink into satire. Gun bashes are a huge part of rural & suburban American life.
© 2014 By Boinkaz
A line of fishing wire
run to the spool~
It reels an endless catch
of camo colored baseball caps
sewn through the teeth with
deer & fish
This is the Gun Bash
to benefit for the Volunteer Fire Company
and for eight hours they will sit
the sportsmen, strapped to a hood of tables
set end-to-end in rows within.
Gorgeous women, swooped like Valkyrie in money aprons,
among the sportsmen holding out
~$10 a purple ticket, modified SKS”~
~$5 pick of the table! Tan ticket, choose your gun.~
Old men, fire plugs with faces painted lines of red, blue,
~your child’s first gun? Rossi .410! $2! $2 a ticket!~
You remember your first shot
in a life frramed by firepower:
the smell of cherry pipesmoke
your grandfather’s wax jacket
as he nestled his arms around you
& his split barrel twelve gauge
with its bully punch recoil.
Rabbit runs: you missed.
~Give me ten~
And every fifteen minutes square blue tickets come out
to see the models on the catwalk as they paraded by
The Glock 36
the Mossberg 835 12 gauge
Smith & Wesson Forty Cal with
Thompson ~ center impact
the Barrett M82 sniper rifle
which sits like a petrified asp
waiting to be reborn in the death of others.
Where each round is so big
it will blow
a $10 dollar bill
The guns flew
The rifles, raffled
clung to the walls.
with their clips like wings
set to triagles, their
chambers strapped open
with nylon ties.
The girl guns cooed next to them
cholas in bright chrome & pink grips.
The flaming beauty field strips the SKS before you.
She births the box clip
as she has all afternoon
at the hands of the sportsmen & now you.
I love this weapon, she says.
You buy her final ticket. You set your beer
& dig your wallet.
For the firestick that, like death, offers no reflection
has mirrored back on you.
And you succumb to the shining flush you
see on the faces around you, because you want
this crack in a barrel.