Spitting cherry seeds by the roadside. Late night Rocky Horror on the back patio.
When we listen to jazz on an old timey-radio, we don’t hear echoes of the past, not our Great Depression.
We hear disillusioned violence, a turn of the century.
They want to turn it on you, rest your body on the side of the road, the world a sepia photograph.
It develops slowly, darkness clinging to monotone like the smell of gin under the juniper trees.

In the morning the world will seem so bright, flamingos on the green
screaming at the technicolor tv fuzz as teens gut them with penknives. We won’t join in.
When I look at my face in the mirror, all I see is radio silence.