American Pyro: F’n Fireworks

Hiss. Bang. Flash. Toxic
residue especially from the color
green. Don’t blame the dogs
for running away.

Another night
of thunder and lightning
without rain.
Where’s my thundershirt?

Cherry bombs in the alley.
M-80s down the subway stairs.
What are we celebrating?
Freedom. Boredom. Gunpowder. Really?

The sky needs no adornment.
The earth, no more wounds.

Streakers Circa 1984

We were three
sisters in boredom
searching for something/anything

to break the monotony
of an unholy Saturday night,
the one before Easter morning.

We were three students,
running 10 years too late
to be cool. Ready

to risk freezing,
we were three fabric shedders,
dashing through the science library.

We were three distractions
for pre-meds desperate to see beyond
endless pages of MCAT practice tests.

We were three marchers,
who slipped, one by one,
down the aisle, passed front and center,

as everyone in the audience watched
Elvis and his jailhouse rockers
on the big screen.

We would have to wait
5 more years for Public Enemy
to call him out.

Applause filled the auditorium
by the time I brought up the rear
in a pair of red socks.

Did we own
“too shy to streak” underwear?
We’ll never tell.

We were three:

Clotho spinning,
Lachesis measuring,
Atropos cutting the thread.

We were three
sisters, ready
to determine our own fates.

Written on the Other Side of Vaulted Ceilings | Small Blades | Mattresses | Tongue Depressors

Pallets
of palette knives
go missing in the night
with fire and other palate
cleansers