Accountant in Colorado Daydreams

Austin Beaton

 

 

Duh, there’re different flavored

new familiars: sadness, blood copper.

Do this: photograph clay table top

on iPad for an effigy holographic,

2D half-homage rewinding

you feeling that disappointed feeling,

face you wish not recognized,

same rain as always

spreads rings in a puddle

then gone and again, again.

Usually never comes down like this

so never call us the Midwest

(flat a four letter word out here).

I transplanted in

to rub flank against mountain,

touch whatever’s left proud in a nation-

shaped embarrassment. Patriotic

to basalt, cold run-off, fog dropped

high-tide below the tree line

as a closing garage front

of a home

we returned from. Like any mood

each town with a drawback:

here? the elk that’ll be car hit

into eating your front grill

like cold breakfast

(near dead then not, now God belief

in grapefruit brain drought of language).

But still—if Mount Evans ever tweets

something racist

they’ll find me splattered

below the rock face

like an egg white omelet

and that’s it. For now?

Long suicide in self sabotage,

drunk cigarette stints, missing last week’s

stability

lost somewhere in my head

like trust for you, memory of the subway

taking an hour to get from Brooklyn

to Brooklyn.

 

 

 


Austin Beaton studied Spanish and Creative Writing and regret at the University of Oregon, where he was a finalist for the Walter and Nancy Kidd Memorial Writing Competition in Poetry. His work has appeared in Peach Mag, The Stay Project, (b)OINK, Porridge Magazine, Voicemail Poems, and is forthcoming in Oxidant Engine and the Angel City Review. He lives near the ocean in San Luis Obispo, California where he swallows figs and gives nicknames. 

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