January 12, 2018
By lucygun BRONZE, Brooklyn, New York
lucygun BRONZE, Brooklyn, New York
3 articles 0 photos 0 comments

She talks like how cigarettes smell
Like how it soaks into everything
Each word a lighter found on the floor
Each syllable a gasp in the morning light
Her hands move with the noise of my grandpas house
All anger and clinical cynicism and old america
All creaking and groaning and waking tired each morning
I think she would like wisconsin
The open spread fields and
static of blue tin coffee cups
Old america pulling itself up as the sun rises
Each breath blowing coal dust
Black menthol smoke stacks
I want to take her
On a road trip in a beat up car
Show her the cattle dampened by dew
Each small town unfurled like a desperate fist
Show all of her the world
Show her, girl drenched in coastal being
Eastern grit and grease
Show her the truth outside of the city
I want to show her
The cracking deserts
The glory of the sun magnified
All neon and dying all grey chewed gum
And dust, dust to the point you can’t believe
And the world unfurling in its own glory
The carved shell of america
I want to show her
Deep forests
Trees that spring up like leg hair
Intrinsically feminine the curve of the world on the brink
Of winter i want to show her
Train tracks, Lie down and feel the movement 
Breath out the smoke of transit
She is all old america
Voice that sounds like leather and
Shaking lungs, the sound of spite
Needle pulling thread pulled by old hands
I think she would like wisconsin
The open expanse, where the shaking grit of old america
Meets the god fearing emptiness

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