Accountant in Colorado Daydreams
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
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
lost somewhere in my head
like trust for you, memory of the subway
taking an hour to get from 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.