Tricked-Out Declaration of IndependenceClay Matthews
Near the sound of a heartbeat rattling in the back of the trunk of a schooly blue Impala and the windows hold on to bump of the bomp of another confession violating local zoning ordinances. We’re breaking the law and goddamnit you’re going to listen to every minute of it. I was on the back porch swinging and drinking and working this line over in my head when the skies came together there were two of them at least and then the wind moved the trees and the trees moved me and I told myself I’m not going to pretend this doesn’t matter anymore I’m going to pretend it does. Yes, I am pretentious sometimes but fraud is an occupation I am seriously considering. Once out of boredom or self-pity I rewrote the history of my family, not really knowing the history of my family, so that I would wear the legend of the con man, passed down from one generation to the next like some terrible secret: Way down in the bottom there there’s a hitchhiker in the family tree. And it was in the revision of this and not the other version of one small-time something after another after another trying hard to be a little bit bigger of a something or other or else. And one level down my people are terrified and bewildered by the bass beating out some perception of desire down the street, over the sidewalk and into the yard, but no not me I’ve got an illusion and a big fucking smile all over my face. And I can pound my fist and do a little shake of the leg and stick my thumb out and whimper and love and at some point in the doing of this you will believe I am free.
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