An early evening gust
broke the back of the day's blaze
Still 90 degrees at eight
in orange haze
Sweat runs down my neck
Through the gorge between my *******
The wind lifts my linen shirt
runs its hands along my sides
reviving memory
of Forest Park
of a blanket in the grass

Where the pines trace
so many faces
Crackling popping kids
stolen matches, running
screaming victorious!
Blowing tin cans up with fire crackers
Bicycles, sparklers, fireworks at dusk
That whole afternoon
I spent hammering caps

Noise really makes us kids
really
especially
annoying

Mom wants us out!
Gone! All of us!
No needs. No excuses!
No cookies! No slices of bologna!
“No more Kool Aid!
Out now!
Out!”

That evening I tried
to dismiss the itchy sweat
of stupid-sister-Suzy-matching-sun-suits
at Gino's family picnic
When some kid
(I don't know?)
between the rigatoni and the sweet corn
Some kid
tosses a sparkler
into box of fireworks
I don't know?
whether to cry or laugh
I was pretty scared
Rockets going off across the lawn
and onto porch
Craze of colors through the trees
Some at eye-level horror!
But the sight of Aunt Nedda
diving under picnic table
Stockings, garter belt upended
Capsized beyond her caring
of uplifted dress

Some images just stay with you, ya know?

July 4th always lands for me
on a firework's ***

Listening to rock, reading the texts of Buddha
I guess Nirvana and enlightenment are one and the same
Thumping hearts hop like ornery frogs
Dysfunction at a critical junction ruined the day

Flipping feels and turning worms
Styx and stones, Hades leaked hurting words
Crepuscular doubt began its creeping
Saturnine habits showed few signs of leaving

No stygian thoughts, that’s my policy
Strength in serenity is no fallacy
“Tempus Fugit” but time is circular
A bipedal butterfly, flapping wings blurred

Need those giggles to wash all the bad days away
I’m metamorphosing past harmful inclinations
A few steps out of your limbo is what it takes
Kissing scars and smiles is all the same

Crack and smolder
Smoke and great pain
The fire recedes
In the springtime rain
And though vast oceans
Of green are gone
They'll rise more vibrant
Again before long

First,
I strive for beauty
I wait for the bell to chime
the lightning to strike

Today, it seems,
the skies are clear
those chimes of midnight
are silenced
they boycott my breath
heap ash on the urgency of ringing
and leave me dizzy
in my decline.

But if the past
truly is prologue
it will all come round again.

Language will make its magic.
Sweetness will ooze from
the open wound
of my heart.

There will be words
in the order and rhythm
in which they were intended.

And poetry will breathe yet again.