the rain at night clears the exhaust of the day
somewhat. 
i breath easier. 
then through the day the mad construction, 
the machine breath spreads. 
it didn't rain last night, but a heavy late fog 
came of exhaust and precipitation to envelop and subdue 
the fireworks. 
all is passing prelude.  
this is the most dread holy nationalistic day. 
tanks will roll down the capitol avenue.  
the anticipation already exploded yesterday. 
the haze hangs over the city. 
today we the people will roast the animals 
of meat concentration camps and shoot up the criss-cross sky. 
i wonder how many guns are fireworks, how many fireworks guns. among the exclamations, how many awed, how  many shocked, how many will be expired today. 
i wonder if they are the same. 
it's 6:57 a.m. the first explosion. yes it's all the same. 
i remember one cretin i worked for who shot a bird through his bedroom window 
for waking him before the alarm. i remember him falling off the ladder 
painting the second story, stung by a bee.  
i gloried in the bee, somehow justly, the bee asserted me, 
as i grew alarmed at the painter's exploding body.  
that may be neither here nor there, yet it's here now, somehow, 
by an act of conjuring memory.
my back is tender from lifting mister yesterday. 
if he needs lifting i'll lift him again today. the exhaustion begins and so, 
do i.