-Notes from the 4th-

There’s a lot going on, what with the clinging

stench of searing meats from backyards

grilling in every direction and my awkward resistance

stemming from neighborly invitations when I take out the trash.

Nighttime, and the celebrations continue

across the river where fireworks ignite over the slow

rising nature of the city.

First, a beat is struck like the pizzicato

of a stressed bass chord, the canister

shot from its ordnance, then the silent expanse,

multi-colored, born in the flash of its hub.

From this side of the river, the largest displays appear to range

from the southend of town to the north-end of town, where

from my line-of-sight, rooftops draw upon the light

as the river draws its light reflectively, like a planet
formed in liquid water revolving an arm’s length from its Sun.

Soon enough the atmosphere fades to black,

save the population’s incandescence pinpricking the hillside.

In the end, a field of stars

above the eastern horizon continue

from the face of the deep, beyond the breach, where

the glint of embers are falling.


                                                        Swansea







   

-Say hello to Larry n' Cecil-

Together, they're the old dysfunctional,

As obsolete as a drawerful of engine cranks,

Or so we thought.
What's left of them was once the cold-blooded

Preserves of history, but not so fast.
Say hello to Larry n' Cecil.

And there's Billy-Bob, camouflaged and made in their image,

Under the harsh florescence at the busy "Load 'Em Up"

Your local, no-check firepower emporium.

Billy-Bob's strollin' through the burgeoning aisles

Promoting "Red Man" chaw.

Take a long look into Billy-Bob's squealing cart.

That’s a lot of ammo ready to cash out and lock down.

That's a heavy rope to sway in the wind over the polling place.

That crooked tree down the road apiece is gettin' closer n' closer.
Good morning, Larry n' Cecil.

Please allow us to introduce ourselves.
We're the ones who presumed you dead and buried.

We're the ones who thought we had it in the bag.
We're the hollow-eyed four-pointer rope-yanked

To the hood of your smelly Chevy pickup.

Enjoy the resurrection, boys, and yeehaw!

The party's on us.

Writ upon the Electoral College madness of 2016