Folk music makes you want to leave.
That must be a universally known fact, that
the banjo strings pull you away
from home. They convince you
this is nothing you want anymore. You’re better off
on the road. Suburbs to cities and then
wheat fields are passing, miles
and miles. You love this folk song before you
sleep and I’m left in the room wondering
if I want to pretend these words are lies.
I sit in the incandescent peripheries and
weigh the ghosts against you.
I don’t make the right decision
and I remember the last time
I was made into a lighthouse. I don't want
to wrap that burden around you.
I told you to fix your guitar and you did
because I told you to. So I
caused the pains but you say
you like the calluses.
In the conscious dream, we
sit in your garage and play music together.
We write this song.
We write this song that makes you want
to stay at home. We write this song
where I say you are everything I want.
Then you do things for posterity but still
backdate the recording with a camcorder.
You force it to last. You tie the strings
around my finger
and vena amoris is beautiful even if
it doesn’t exist. You pull
on my sleeves and we sing that folk song,
silver-coated nylon and it’s home.
We’re not going anywhere.