Light my brain on fire with a gunpowder-wig fuse and see if burning hair smells as glamorous as it looks in civil war adaptations. Sit on this lonely couch and reminisce the awful effects of melatonin used improperly. (I hear the street sweeper roll by on Roscoe, trudging on like a slug).
Last night we watched the silhouette of an enormous tree become illuminated by the crackling greens and flaring reds of a poorly choreographed firework display. Here we, stupid mouth-breathing humanity, setting up lawn chairs across the street from the mall, with traffic slowing to a halt in front of us and light pollution ruining the bright mystique of such explosives in the sky, the Chinese gun powder specialists who created controlled astral blasts in order to entertain and to attempt to resemble the power and mystery of gods on earth, we can create star death and expand the imagination of millions of children with eyes wide with awe or terror depending on temperament.
The colors were grand. They make us look up and go 'ooo' and 'ahhh' and the fizz and pop like military grenades made of sizzling confetti. Sparks fly and shower down toward the Earth, decaying into nothing before setting off fires. Low flying planes watch for fires. It was 100 degrees and everything is dry and arid.
We, stupid sluggish humanity, sat transfixed by the road with the slow moving vehicles, bumper to bumper with lagging, staring, empty eyes. I made faces at them so when they scan the crowd to meet me, they laugh or go bug eyed. This is a ritual for many. Many cultures represented. Middle Eastern children chanting something in unison while running around. Different languages. Diversity of human beings but none of them feeling all that patriotic. I felt like a clown, personally.
Sitting on this dog piss soaked matt of a grassy knoll. Street lamps and smog killing our view of the stars. Headlights, car horns, and greasy machinery taking away from all of the biggest 'booms!' from the park. These cars are trapped and the people rush to get a better view. We all knew we were ripped off. Our families gathered around us. Tiny dogs at our feet. Listening intently to the young couple's observations. They have clearly seen better. The Fourth has always been about beautiful fireworks for me. Something uncanny and out of the ordinary. A gathering of fleshy bodies to the Gig Harbor shoreline to watch the brightest explosions echo across the bay with no planning for finale but rather a display of awe-inspiring color and sound. No patriotism for me. Only false and humorous. Listening to racist american music and drinking cheap beer on waterfront property. Making a 45 point turn to get out and get moving toward the next mistake and the bigger bonfires with smaller people and greater fireworks. Backyard barbecues on fire, people screaming and blowing out birthday candles from trampoline flip heights and pools have sexual deviance floating around in them with mild and disgruntled apathy, with tired minds and hasty smiles, with deliberate menace and stupid nationalism, with greasy burgers, cake pops, rich kids with generous parents, filth and squalor for a dollar or more, nobody weird enough to invite over, the soiree would die in a battle with no heart. No music could be played well enough for everyone there to listen to with the most patience.
Bright lights in the sky
Spinning floppy disks
Helicopters shoot them down
over prepared for warfare
against fire
the situation is dire
we need more freedom and less individuals
we need an enormous sinkhole on the 405
during rush hour
that nobody can see until they fall in it
into hell
