4th

It's love that breaks against the rocks
and not foam nor water of any kind,
It's a baptism of ire that makes the horizon burn
in coalish, motionless plumes.

Stained cotton from beach front windows.

We were smoking joints
in the guts of the canyons,
the mired trai1s to the sea kissed shale.

All the blues from Chicago knife
and gunshot histories
is folk lore all the kids
destroy with their breathing.

Even at dinner time,
forks are next to plates
whose owners wonder
what's eating their neighbors
with all the strange phone calls
about what's going on the shoreline.

The armies of the night
couldn't scare up a quarter of the beaches
America has landed on
searching for something to talk about on
deserted talk show acres
where anyone in a tight suit
and big glasses can explain away
the bombs bursting in air
with sarcasm and ad -libs.