i do think there’s an art to losing yourself, but now is not the time.
the neighbors set off fireworks last night,
lacerated the gentle drape
of nighttime silence
with
collisions of comets
and chemicals.
the picture of suburbia.
they were beautiful.
and beauty is distracting.
will you do me a favor?
close your eyes for me,
just for a moment.
let the light bleed
through your eyelids
like watercolor,
let it smear your retinas,
the grimy, wandering hands of
a curious child.
feel the rattle
in your ribs
that comes with
each explosion,
how it shakes
some long dead animal
sleeping inside your lungs
back to life.
listen.
just under the delightful
discord of festivities,
there’s a screaming,
hundreds of voices
blending together in
a cacophony of chests and mouths.
it’s a tangled,
convulsing thing,
and the hurricane of pitches stain
your throat black,
until your lungs wilt
and all you can do
is scream along
to the desecration
of it all.
it lingers
in your ears
like tinnitus,
and suddenly this
muted undertone
of violence and despair
rings louder than
the rockets in the sky.
it’s so deafening
you wonder how
you managed to muffle it
under these
shards of color
and thunder
for so long.
now
open your eyes
and witness the appalling truth
that echoes in the smoky
skeletons of celebration
that dirty the sky
and dye america’s moon
blood red
