Speaking Truth to Guns, Original Poetry by Thomas Martin Saturday


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These infernal machines keep frightening me
as soft flesh,
even bone
cannot stand against them

in our surrender
to devices
that kill more rapidly
than knives and fists,

the mathematical certainty
of large magazines
filled with projectiles
hurled at many bodies with
the barking rapidity of the semi-automatic
patterns ripping flesh
sprouting blood
from

mere innocents,
who were not informed
they were to die today.

Three hundred million guns
for three hundred fifty million
of the troubled populace
paralyzed by fear

who think magnifying the sowing of death seeds
putting deadly force
into the hands of vox populi
the golden answer
yet

all of them with flaws
hatreds
such deadly prejudices,
impulsive behaviors
poor judgments,
illness
criminal tendencies,
minds infected by the need
to use the power of the gods.

I ask how having so many deadly weapons
so easily acquired
renders our extended community,
heirs to the happiness and domestic tranquility
spoken to us
in our sacred documents
more safe than
existing where they may no longer
plague us

taking so many lives
spreading mourning
loss,
emptiness
pain,
so many empty chairs

like a great war
with all the young men gone
never to return
mollifies the immense wrong.

Why is a well-regulated militia
merely all of us
taken singly,
each one
holding sovereign power,
becoming arbiters of death
for so many
feeding our most wicked passions

to never permit a single gun
to be pried from the hand
of a single citizen

mistakenly taking themselves
for the all powerful
decision maker?

The rest of humanity
fails to grasp
the immense mad rush
to satiate sexual prowess by other means,
the flood of blood
never satisfied

bearing witness to our moral depravity,
something so principally allocated to civilization
running away from us in repulsion,

replaced by an ill wind
that blows
though us as if our bodies
were nothingness
before the massacre
of those yet unborn.

What madness,
hubris
ill-logic,
the trumpet call to act
unheard,

left for dead on the field,
our true god the killing machines
we guard
like the seed and womb
sacred
more than life itself

oh, my people, you are truly mad and wicked
I refuse to join you
in the killing fields
where the miasma of disease
dances its perennial rituals of the dark.