This explosion laden sky —
simulacrum of war — red glare,
etc.  Flag, etc. Drums and
parade and roasting, grilling,
etc. The best damn colors
in the whole damn world, etc.,
red among them, red the shade
of all of the blood-spill of our history, etc. —
I am trying to forget my usual rage
in favor of an uneasy delicacy around 
one huge fear prompted tonight
at the fireworks show,
among the large trucks in the lot
surmounted with large US flags,
by a small brown boy who ran laughing
and clapping gladly at the exploding sky,
simulacrum of war, red glare, etc., 
knowing nothing but joy
at loud noise and a sky full of flames — 
incendiary stars briefly shining
then burning out as they fell
as their cousins the bombs
fall elsewhere upon brown boys
like him, and tonight (at least) the large men
are laughing with him as he runs among their
giant waving flags; he is growing up
under those flags, under a
war-ripped sky, and I wonder: if and when
things change for him here,
will he end up loving or loathing the etc. 
that is this place, will he end up
as afraid as I am of the large men
in the large trucks and their flags
the size of tents, of walls, etc., etc., 
when if ever will he become afraid
of all the etc. that comes these days
for so many as part of life
under the red and white and blue.

Such things

as a neighbor’s
somber face
caught smiling
for a little longer 
than the usual
ghost moment 
she allows
for happiness
to haunt her
expression

or the way
a certainly ordinary
everyday unnoticed
shaft of tree-channeled
sunlight strikes
a backyard bed
of gone to seed lettuce
illuminates the pale stalks and
makes them shine
and appear
(for the first time 
in a long while
since the last harvest)
quite appealing in spite of
recent neglect

Such things 

are becoming
what I need
to get by

A scar on my thumb tip 
that won’t heal underneath —
current marker of my decrepit
mortality — wound whose cause
I’ve long forgotten, stone scar
pulsing intermittently
with small but constant pain
each time it comes into contact
with anything — guitar neck,
keyboard, another finger — this last
the most persistent as I worry
and rub that tiny round 
into a nearly constant mini-scream —
why do I do this to myself, why don’t I
get it looked at, perhaps removed, 
why do I make it hurt more and more
until the inevitable day
the scar breaks away
from the new flesh underneath — 
so tender, raw, and pink — waiting
for its chance
to harden and mound up
and begin the cycle again —
as I do, as I do each time
I rise wounded from bed
these days, latter days
hard crusting over
raw sense — never 
healing so much that 
I can forget that it hurts — 
even if I don’t know anymore
why it does.