Independence Day Weekend

(a collaboration with Todd Colby) 

Here amid the burned papers and empty cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon, a mere schedule conflict makes us intelligent again, and sacrificial.  Even Canada has rednecks, but no one is rude enough to call them rednecks.  And I suggest you respect the Bay of Fundy's red-violet mud should you visit Nova Scotia.  The bay has other plans for you, which become apparent once you surrender, much as you'd surrender. Let's just assume the gravity of summer is a good thing. Picnics with a certain sense of destruction are a metonym for the future approaching you of its own volition.  Certain things are hurtling toward you always.  The possibility of a June blue sky, say.  Or death, say.  What's that word that means "the ever-present potential for losing your edges"? Oh, those candied orange slices they serve with sugar all over them and when you bite into them it's a soft, squishy jelly that seems perfect for lounging around on, were it the size of a futon in Bermuda.  As long as we don't accidentally start a forest fire and get sued by the state of California, we could totally do that.