What I’m craving right now is a
Shot of July,
Fireworks flying high
Over this town that everybody wants to leave
But I will never get over,
Never get over his smile,
Friday night,
Pulling up in my drive,
His voice so full and alive,
Making me want to dive
Right in,
Right into the lake that’s too cold
But I’m too old
I guess, to laugh out loud,
Do something just for fun,
Be happy for no reason,
Be optimistic and cherish hope for a
Better season-
I’m supposed to be already
Battle-hardened, war-ready;
I haven’t reached twenty but I know
There’s evil in the world.
That doesn’t mean there still isn’t good.
I’m craving a shot of July when
I’m not old enough to take a shot,
But I’m old enough to take a stand,
Lend a hand,
Understand,
Witness injustice firsthand
And use my voice to try and mend.
So please.
No more gunshots in July,
No more mothers wondering whether
Her son is going to survive the night,
No more human skin grated against concrete,
No more hospital beds surrounded by weeping,
No more lives lost and priests kneeling
And children screaming for their fathers,
Both earthly and eternal.
What I’m craving right now is a
Shot of July,
Fireworks flying high,
The loudest screams out tonight
Are the children chasing each other with
Sparklers in the yard,
Not yet marred
By the ideas of the world.
So please.
No more gunshots in July.

Ask Americans why they prefer kosher Hebrew National Frankfurters for July 4th cookouts



they will reply:

they are extra clean,
possibly even a little blessed
by the rabbin-ate,
and everybody knows
the jews got all the luck,
so don’t forget the mustard and
the pickled relish,
which rhymes with
you know what:
(embellish, shellfish (?), psychedelic).

kosher hot dogs,
love that jewish treat,
a digestive hellish,
proof positive that hot dogs
make America great
again and again,
in brown, yellow, and green.

you're heavy today.

like the ropes you'd ask me
to pull up onto the bow of the boat.

that was last summer
when my knees knocked together
and my ac didn't work right.

the sweat still sticks to me.
the smell is strong.

like your scotch and
your tobacco and
your scent.

the warm one
with the sweet undertones.

the one you wore to every dinner
under your jacket.

the one in the half-bottle
that was the only thing
on the whole of your bathroom counter.

the one i think of now in this weird place
between remembering
the searing heat of your voice
and waxing poetic
over the veins in your arms.

and since i'm being honest,
i've always been jealous
of every glass
you put to your lips.

where they found
the soft of your flesh
i found the grit of teeth
and the sharpness of your tongue.

and for a second,
i almost miss that iron taste,
that tangle of ropes
and the hard spots on the pads of my fingers.

down on my palms,
the callouses have faded.

my hands are soft now,
but tough.

strengthened from the burns
of braided rope
and pie pans
and you.

made hot by the grip of july.

i was born on a Monday
all other details have been omitted for their irrelevance
unimportant in the way the morning dew could have clung to the humid trees crying impossibly from the heat
or that on that side of the world everything was brand new but ostensibly old to someone else
my nature doesn't allow me to believe in the mystical and even fate is a faraway dream that I only let myself cradle when I'm feeling particularly whimsical
like right after eating a suspiciously delicious fruit or the fizz from my carbonated drink still remaining even after two hours of sitting forgotten on my kitchen table
the stars do not dizzy me and the twirl that you tried so hard to perfect while spinning me did not sweep me off my feet
but it did garner a sort of appreciation for the way things are
the way they have always been and in that there are little instances of magic gone unnoticed
I was born on a Monday
a casual work day for anybody
routine and abundant
auspicious and careful even in the way I first opened my eyes to see those rays of sunlight I can't remember but know were there
behind a curtain or shrouded past a family of trees
permanent

I'm far from you
Yet close;
My heart races,
ten steps too fast,
Blood trying
To fix imaginary wounds.

My head hurts so bad,
My legs won't stop,
Shaking—

The cries of my lonely self
I miss you.

As I was about to say, this is art
in a word,
aitia:
official authorized art intelleogence of the utmost
fidentiality
guised
asif cosplay caused
-- something strange just hapt...

consider this first
the s i d e r
in insider is some same with the
sider in con sider,

which is
sidereal, you know
what that means.

consider this art
that thinks with you,
in time.

There are monks,

or monkish
minded men
offering wishes

for pray-ers to take as answers found in

shade on hot July days... asif

a twinkle of a hope.

Yes, I can smell the gunpowder all right.
And sure,  I can hear the 'pom' 'pom' in the distance of the bombs bursting in air and whatnot.
But I'm not seeing the red glare itself.
From every angle, I'm not getting any of the rainbow foofaraws as was advertised.
Instead, it's just me and the dog here.
I'm just dizzy with conflicting ideas of what being 'here' means.
Anyways, I'm too busy, tired and dispossessed of my patriotism to really give a rah-rah anywho.

I guess you can keep the fireworks.