Independence Day

Surviving the fourth of July. Fireworks are not beautiful, they are
carnivorous and desperate cries. The inner city erupts like the
middle child throwing a temper tantrum. I exist, I exist. Like
sending flare out into the night sky. SOS. A boat drowning in the
ocean of Los Angeles. Everyone, including the police in their
uniforms, sits back and enjoys the show. The pretty colors.

Surviving the fourth of July. Fireworks are not beautiful, they are
boastful and foolish cries. The inner city erupts and no one minds
because the noises and blasts that scare the dogs into howling are
only noises and blasts and not gone shots. Someone gave south
central an inch and they blew it up into a million pieces and
colors. Everyone sits back and enjoys, but we have our hoses running
to keep the roofs and lawns from burning.

Surviving the fourth of July. Fireworks are beautiful shadows of
war, eyefuls of color and man-made thunder. For one day of the year
the inner city decorates appropriately. It is a war, but for today
we can laugh about it, lean back around the bbq and enjoy this war
torn place with a beer in hand.