April 1, 2017 orangeq2017

Things on Pins

Andrew Payton

 

the day you pick me up in Nashville
I trace an island of flesh off your back,
and hang it on the wall,
beside it, a court order from Marion, VA,
for hitching 81, defiled in fat sharpie,
CITIZEN: CONFORM IN EACH AND EVERY WAY,

soaking garbanzos, picture old satellites,
bandanas and tear gas, taking this
guitar out and dashing it across the face
of quiet, discordance of nylon and cheap wood,
broccoli spoils, a dumpster load of day-old
bagels, and coffee grounds, flag burning on the porch,

a Southerner painted in flames, bourbon,
and river rock, the bank calls for fees,
and when your father comes to town we search
for condom wrappers, my boxers, and books with
CIVILIZATION or CONSPIRACY or FAILURE or AMERICA
in the title, rip everything from the wall,

we turn off the heat, give back the car,
unplug the lights, and make sure the cops don’t stop,
race to the top floor of the public library,
a torrent of snow, in our new elevation
and the city below, construction and tree stumps
and driveways, for a moment, gone in white.

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