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Happy Fourth of July! Let’s be honest here, we like it because we have it off and we get to blow stuff up. It’s wasteful, and we do it anyway. That’s pretty much the country’s motto. So, what is going on today? Parade, then off to a Waldorff meeting where the teacher affirmed our parenting awesomeness, and birthday preparations. It’s been busy. And I still have to clean my house. I’m going to write a 4th of July poem, watch Colombia vs. Brazil, and call it good.

Here:

The 4th of Always

I can’t really say I’ve ever in my life felt any sort of nationalism, I am not a patriot to this country that stews injustice and inequality, the one that puts guns and gods on parade. Protect my speech, true, but little else, I’ve no need for your ideology in my womb, thanks, sir, I’ve had enough. Let’s move on, from postmodernism to the Shattered Era, where these keystrokes are recorded and art is commodified and spit back out. The resistance feels like such a light touch, like just nearly not enough to combat the cash, we try and try and try without getting outrageous and losing our jobs, how would we get to our jobs without fuel, and doesn’t it make the Bakken poems into silly time? Pull ourselves up by the bootstraps, sure, but what to what are we strapped, then? To the trappings of small billionaires, we give our dollars upwards, good gracious, what would you do if you were trapped in a room with the men who own billions, can you conceive of bilions? What a number, put yourself in the room. Let’s put the nations on the field and pretend that’s all that’s played, let’s leave the nationalism on field.  Let’s pretend we don’t see the signs that demand more thought, let’s look askance at at the signs and laugh it off over late night television. This money builds in resistance, resistance is futile, but beautiful, here’s when I love my country: when I listen to the poets. When the music takes over, in the evening low-light, when we break out the campaign glasses in the low-light, in the company of minds we like. I have never, in my life, done anything “for America”, but I’ve lamented, again and again, over and over and over again, cry, cry, cry. There’s a certain kind of light off the bay that I drive into, and I listen to monied radio with its computers and machines, the fear is the wind I shake and slide my and up and around out the window, sure, they’re coming for the peaks too, and the beaches of northern lakes, it is coming for them, and that I will picket. There I’ll stand in the chain of humanity, linked at elbows, ready to fight to the arrest.There it is, my patriotism in the silty bottom of the Clark Fork river, touch this shale and I’ll kill you, break forests and I will erupt in vivid wildfire, take the core up with your machines, and I will art you to death. Here we shout the date and whitewash with optic white, we take in pablum in doe-eyed wealth, we are shown how to caress of screens of high definition, and yes, we can recall great moments of triumph, but those all come from art that breaks through mirror, and it’s rare and then we celebrate our money on each shattered note. The fourth of always, it seems, needs artillery more than art can provide. The fourth of always needs an assault of soul, again, and again, like a report in the still Northern nigh.

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I went to format this and got caught up. It is what it is. Fourth of Always, poemfriends.

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