it’s quiet in the noisy market
as purple kholrabi scream
hot malaysian cashews
chatter with the old
tiny women over
locally grown 
sour cherries
volunteers groan
and shave ice blocks
out the highway moaning
with the muffled shade made
in the noise of the quiet market

the continuous
art of the start readin
writin rythm tickin curiosity
and all that jazz you read about
on the paper napkin the poet spoke
and fed her brain

softly heroes shimmer deep 
in the red white blue
history herstory
just the facts
no truths

no matter how you try and spin it
it’s the fourth of july
not the third
or fifth

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