4th of July

Plastic pinwheels flashed like metal
tinsel-tickled flowers folded
over. Dark strangulation of cloud covered sky:
Sunset pink nylon scarf that smelled
of must at my throat.

You pulled the gizzards from a frozen chicken
I could no longer look at pimpled yellow flesh:
The crack of bone, body halved by your blade
steel wedge, your smile
split skin—gristle emerging from the fold.

I was not prepared for this no-picnic picnic,
nor for sailors nor cyclists nor circus freaks
flying flags lost in the crowded firmament.
But this sphere is an image,
whether it be solid, liquid or gas
a holographic bubble densely curling
under the weight of its no-substance surface
ready to bust.

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I'm a rock-n-roller poet who left the Big Apple for the Big Sky Desert where I've been letting it be and grooving with universal love, singing to the gods, dancing with the muses and bicycling with dreamtime messengers. I like altering my reality through imagination, movement, breath, and makin' stuff.

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