Flea Market Rattle Can

At the 

Flea Market

Pulling the blue tarp
Slogging the wet asphalt
Breathing the foul car perfume
Selling me the nearly worthless
Dirty, worn work boots below
Floppy flowered sun hat above
Going back to the start
A swap, a trade, a barter
A short reprieve under the tent
A text and half BLT on pumpernickel
Stan’s tossing back a dirty chia
Laura’s breast feeding Tom Tom
Pulling the blue tarp
Walking the steamy asphalt
Breathing the foul car perfume

Walk on the ledge. Run along the high road. Jump the fence. Step up here; you’ll not regret doing the right thing; the collective thing. No reward. No, “Someone else should do it first”. Be the activator. Blow a kiss to the vulgar winds of hate and dismissiveness. Happiness is helping. Be the first, the only. No matter what. Better dirt in your eyes than that weak, fearful longing in your heart. Better a punch, a bloody nose, a broken tooth than an empty, false security.

I can’t say it I can’t say it I can’t say it
Big enough
Brutal enough
Beehive bursting enough
Happiness isn’t a sum, a state, a smile
It’s a bug-humming blizzard in your blood
A pause at the apex
A carnival of ongoing ideas crystalizing into star fallout as you pedal yourself and push yourself—not for work or professional esteem, but for “Because I want to; because it’s happening in my cellular tissues”—up the hills and over the golf course greens, or the abandoned strip mall grays and browns. Happiness is doing well! Doing for people and nature and the moment! Happiness is a feeling. And it comes on, and it flies away, and it suddenly over comes you—the you that fears too much.

Back to it:

Police officers aren’t safer because they shot someone in the moment of possible threat. Not because they kill someone, without restraint. Citizens aren’t safer because they hide, or because they don’t question and they blindly appease the unthinkable. And the unthinking.

Should I buy the gas mask and bayonet or the cocktail shakers and the Igloo icy maker?

K. Shawn Edgar | Poem Maker | Empathetically Flawed | Post Disappointment


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