Ryan Fitzpatrick

O synapse circle, now don’t you cry for me

No heaven in depression or an auto-playing reel

These are latter-days, we know

The white flight of defacto soundtracks

Doomlooping the news

The constant need for daily trends

Swept lost doom into their billions

The aesthetic sweep of demographic shifts

Radio made me disrespectful

Too few feelings for pop-market research

Radio made me impatient

It’s so tough to pay attention

To the worldwide of fame lust

How could I almighty the wrong dollar

Splicing the 8-Track back into itself

When did information get so personal

Wailing fiddle riff o’er round chillin’

Filed under “Race Records”

Depression used to be a historical event

Roy Rogers picking peaches in a labour camp

Privatizing all the dust in the air

A staid version of the tune

A weary hand brushing away the coal

Tilled like the donation box

No one loves a hobo

Privatized like a sad autonomy

Recession itself is retconned

Jimmy Carter built all those houses

George Bush painted all those dogs

That 1870s Show

When your IQ surpasses your credit score

“Fuck or Die,” reports The New York Times

“They’re replacing us,” reports Reddit chud

The medium is just the wrong size, okay

Like when radio is great-great-grandfathered in

I call it a slop-on-slop transformation

The fantasy cosplay of confederacy

Where in the lyrics he doesn’t dream of reinstating slavery

But he doesn’t not dream of reinstating slavery

Just the love that produced it

Carry me back to ol’ Virginnie

My old Kentucky home

Dixieland delight, etc.

That Bourbon Street steak with the Oreo shake

If the South would’ve won, etc.

Hank Jr.’s rowdy friends settling in, not down

Sunset as economic value

David Allen Coe’s mail-order service

Penthouse doublewide truck cab pundit

Jason Aldean’s Sundown Town

Transatlantic history of the banjo’s circulation

Feeling about no feeling

Refrained in the bandwidthed worth

No feeling in staking yourself

Note slips behind its face

Stetson in the middle eight

A carnival of violation noodling tradition

A note and its subsequent correction

Dragging me back into the Zoom meeting

Quick-baiting despair of the Lay’s bag

Ballad of the weary layman

Laying in bed by force

Folk Rock’s take on alienated labour

Robin Pecknold wanting to pick peaches in a labour camp

Some sunny historical fantasy

A desire to watch the bridges that we’re burning

I didn’t choose this aesthetic

I’m everyone who ever chose this aesthetic

As evidence mounts denial as far my eye can see

For I retweet Alabama with an iPhone on my knee