Thursday, September 9, 2010

PARADE, Part 1 (for Nada Gordon)

There are 24 new hours on parade.

In defense of marching.

In the middle of my city.

I miss nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Confetti dumped from balconies onto streets filled with sunshine.

Rain on, Parade.

Confetti withering.

Phony wads of pulped pigmentation.

Funny dads who gulp perspiration.

Confetti is for fertility. Link.

For celebrations we want you wet and ready.

Programmatic and descriptive.

Parade. Outside your home. Parade.

Put your parade trash in the parade can.

Show me your parade face.
Full of paint.

Service Industry Workers.
Sanitation Specialists.
Society Sugar Babies.
Sweaty Sock Cops.
Sports Fans.
Smiling Soldiers.
Second Line Stompers.
Stripper Tippers.
Strong Men.
Salsa Dancers.
Strange Attractors.
Streaming Users.
Staff Counselors.
Storefront Beggars.
Stiff Drinkers.
Storied Immortals.
Soft Porn Graduates.
Song Writers.
Shifty Crowd Pleasers.

Left. Left.
Left Right Left.
One. Two.
One Two Three.

Glitter, smaller than confetti, is universally shiny.
Such shiny sistered faces.
It sticks to my pillow. I'll split her
into however many it takes two
three four.

I split her in to march. Suddenly separate,
it takes several.


Nada Gordon: 2 ludic 4 U said...

Oh, Jeremy, oh, oh... these are just... extraordinary. I don't know how to thank you... except... thank you... thank you.

Sending much love to wash over all of our pain,

Jeremy James Foxtrot Thompson said...

I'm glad for the empathy. It's a kind of hope.

Thank you.


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