Fireflies & Hand Grenades
By Jared Benjamin
I couldn’t assemble
enough catharsis
from the depths
of burning dictionaries
as I confess my disappointment
making bonfires
from the dead language
tattooed on ripped out pages
all I can do
is gaze up at the night sky
as it once again
plays me for a fool
like all of my buried ideals
for the “American dream”
the children croon
to a blood orange moon
and pitch black solar eclipses
and their sorrow
morphs into a microcosm
of acid teardrops
trying to burn off
every cold sheet of ice
to resurrect
one more moment
of warm summer revelry
from unwrenching fire hydrants,
rejuvenation shoots out
from the quelling ecstasy
of rushing water
soaking our sweaty bodies
from nightfall manhunts
in quiet meadows
and capturing
swarms of fireflies
with air-hole mason jars
from mornings
of mud-sledding
and creekside exploration
bandstand concert gatherings
with friends and families
…yet the world collapses
under the weight of lost ships
the nation is devoured
by the ghosts
of industrialists
and young Republican analysts
…yet the only part of this world that is growing
is the decay, bittersweet decay
I just wait at this intersection like the center pew
trying to turn this corner sidewalk
into my personal soapbox podium
peddling eulogies for the cemeteries
where all of our tomorrows are laid to rest