Either the fireworks were worse
or the trees grew. There’s no
two ways about it. I was
standing in the same exact place:
351 paces from the asbestos-ridden
headquarters of the extinct
Bethlehem Steel Corp. So
sunburned and peeling, skin
under my cotton t-shirt assumed
the fiber had travelled back in time
through a wormhole and regained its
field-like coarseness and seeds.
Ouch. And this after a family
picnic where nobody ever asks
you anything. I waded in
the pool as an apparition of the distorted
propaganda they ginned up
against me during the decade I spent
out West trying to get famous.
I went to the fireworks after
the picnic with my family
alone because they give my
honey panic attacks. They did
not ask why she was not there.
But if they had, would I have
given them the real or the
fake answer? That I won’t know
because they don’t believe in ghosts.