[Deer Park, July 4, 2011]
They are ants to sugar piles,
Unrelenting rolling all-day, one way,
West-going, some quickly, most slow,
In dirty trucks, convertibles,
Seeking high-sky candy, fireworks,
Blasting over Grand Marais, starting
Right after the end of day; the ants
Foul town streets, looking to park,
Demanding primo locations
For the loud show after darkfall.
When whistles, booms and bangs end,
Back east surgeth beer-filled lookers
I shall never ken why women and men
Are so drawn to pyrotechnic pap,
Cacophonic picnics, simulations
Of the martial myths of olden times.
If they wish to sdee such things for real,
Join the army and ship abroad
To IEDs and shards of bods.
Not this crew, they don’t want reality,
Only appearances of, candyasses.