Austin Davis is a poet and student activist currently studying Creative Writing at ASU. Austin's writing has been widely published in dozens of literary journals and magazines including Pif Magazine, After the Pause, Philosophical Idiot, Soft Cartel, and Collective Unrest. Austin has also been featured in KJZZ’s “Word” podcast, The East Valley Tribune, Voyage Phoenix Magazine, and the Arizona Commission on the Arts. Austin's first two books, Cloudy Days, Still Nights and Second Civil Warwere both published by Moran Press in 2018. His next collection of poetry, The World Isn't the Size of Our Neighborhood Anymore, is forthcoming from Weasel Press on March 3rd, 2020. You can find Austin on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook and you can reach him at Awdavis0214@gmail.com
The Arizona elements are released from their asylums in July; the wind flips through your favorite book and cries after reading the last poem; it rains
and rains in warm empathetic bursts and unlike your cold frightened rain monsoon rain brings dead leaves back to life; it’s the kind of rain that makes me profess my love under your window with a boombox it’s the kind of rain that flings doors off its hinges then eases them back into place at dawn the world isn’t the size of our neighborhood anymore we’ve seen starless nights where the moon went to visit mars; we’ve held each other on the roof of my car and watched meteors fall from the sky but never hit the ground; come
sip your black tea as the sky turns to rotting peaches; listen for the lovers pillow talking in the water running down our windows as the light collects in puddles in the street we can only hope the storm will last more than a couple minutes
I want you to love me like an acid trip
and make the years in my skin melt past our mattress
into a puddle of wrinkles and hair; bruises and scars.
As our blankets become a cloudless night for us to pop open like champagne,
reach into my mouth and feel the moon rising up my throat.
Find the stars in my stomach and spin the planets
on the 4th grade science fair project in my head. We don’t have to wake up from this high tomorrow. The sun only has to rise if we let it open our blinds.
There’s a town in Norway where the morning doesn’t come all winter.
Let’s flip off our bosses, turn in our uniforms, and make art all fucking night
until we understand why Van Gogh cut off his ear and gave it as a gift.
You’re Miles Davis, playing your trumpet with your back turned to the audience.
I’m just a kid, scratching a self portrait into the curb behind an Arby’s
with one of the spaceship-shaped rocks I can only assume a cavewoman first found a way to spark a flame with.