it’s june 25th and i’m

lying awake
listening to assorted gun fire
4th of July right around the corner
right around the corner
everything but freedom rings

listening to “locals”
stringing together orchestrated
yet disaggregated fire
return fire

fire rules the night
wild fire
trees are unsafe
trees struck by strays
I wonder if the kids are scared
I wonder if they are used to it
I know the kids aren’t safe
cuz even strays find homes
after such time
my spot-eyed pit-bull pays no mind

lying awake listening
to people definitely trying
to kill one another
or something like it

definitely trying
to survive
or something like it

I have never been so keen
to hear sirens
in my life

I fall asleep to sounds
of warfare
but as for sirens
I slumber with total silence

i wake up to the loud alarm  of sirens
butt-naked, I put clothes on
step out onto pavement
I’m under-dressed for the occasion
a procession of sirens,

mimicking early mourning

I bear witness
to accomplices
in standard issue

authorities arriving
after sun up
to collect dead bodies
no body that we know of made it
cold bodies
stolen in the heat of summer nights
and uncontrollably high tensions

the rushed roaring of engines
and blaring sirens deceiving

the death collectors take their time

the authorities collect the corpses
so carefully, very respectfully
giving a confusing sense to us gathered
looking on to the after math
through their calmly reverential collection
giving us the impression
that they regret it ever happened
that they wish this all hadn’t happened
that they wish this had been resolved another way
as if
they aren’t content with our dying

but what happens
to the trapped
when we wanna be happy
and we are forced to kill to live

we get sad here

we go to bed
and we dream amazing worlds
into existence
they say we are weak
but they should see our resilience
as we dream
they say we are stupid
but look at the creativity of our dreams
we make up
mountain ranges
and ponds
and magical places
where the only bang you get
is for your buck
we don’t dream in the language
of this reality
we don’t dream
with the textures
of this reality
there is no blood
just light pouring out of wounds
there is no scarring
just marked memories
of everything we overcome
we don’t make coffins there
you wouldn’t dream of it
in our dreams
we don’t know any pain
that doesnt come with peace

in our dreams we make up magic, we make up more than one can imagine, we make up, oh you should see what we make up

until we wake up.

waking up
is bad here.
what happens
to the trapped
we have to kill to live
so we are sad here
we go to work
and still have to come back here.

sad here
so fucking sad here
we get so fuckin sad
and still come back here