Eyesight

Selling god out of the rear of a repair garage
on the back lot of a burnt lawn with rusting cars up on blocks,
between an alley spilling over salesmen of assorted salvations
and a famished fifties duplex slouching to the left, calling for a rest.
Its sun-fried, old-time occupant standing,
folding his laundry in a sunray through the screen door.
Boozing teens yell in code from the next porch
over power chords and skateboards.

Nothing says 'you're wrong,' like an eighties station wagon:
its green passenger door on a body rusting gold,
with more repeating stickers than there is space for or cause.
You know we'll see only what we have eyes for.

Piled aluminum scrap overflowing the bed of an old pickup,
spilling over the ground, an ocean wave of metal imitating the sun;
a blinding flash from beneath our feet to wash out the sky.
Break-in mischief, the topic of our everyday lore,
the trappings of a night before and the lost score.

You know we'll see only what we have eyes for.
What is the whore you're looking for? *
Only what we have eyes for.

Oh, the audacity:
on auction, a city!
A back alley obsession
with the quickest strike at salvation.

Trade off nervous grins for nods of the head
and forget for the moment to believe in hate.

No one's buying in,
and no one's selling out,
if anyone takes this seriously.

Yeah, nothing says 'you're wrong,' like an eighties station wagon:
its green passenger door on a body wearing through,
with more repeating stickers than you can find space for or cause.
You know we'll see only what we have eyes for.
No, there are no more unicorns! ^
Only what we have eyes for.

* Low "Whore"
^ 800beloved "No More Unicorns"