Saturday. In the Park. I think it was the 4th of July.

some men capture what I can forget to keep in mind. Sometimes the saltbowl can still be beautiful. every so often, even in the depths of summer, when all the flip-flops fuse with the side walks, we can still have a celebration.

Of the two 4th of July celebrations I've been to in the city the first was a celebration of people, and the second might as well have been a friends episode.

That first time was my first residence in Boston, and we moved in on the first of June. Nestled in a student-free brighton hill, we were swallowed up by what people refer to as "real boston;" the commuters, the families, the children on scooters hasseling you for money, the cars crawling and the bikes weaving between them. The night had already come in and because of the holiday, a holiday you felt more strongly here, we all walked in the street, thousands of people migrating to the Hatchshell to watch the Pops. The charles looked like a bayou and there wasn't a patch wide enough for the blanket but the music rang along the banks and we all ate ice cream like children. I was proud to say I felt no emotions then.

The harvard bridge with its satellite vision of the state street art work filled up full and clear like the whole damn city was going to blow. The T's rang with efficency and we all were half deaf. The heat wave gave way to icy cars and in the middle of summer we all shivered like a rung church bell. I carried fast food in a brown paper bag, and we all went back to an old brick building with the floral hotel carpeting in the stairwells. we sat in a poorly ventilated living room and left only the screen door closed. We stood on our balcony that looked out to the back of the buildings across the way, ugly in their honestly, traced the ages in delapidating portions and make-shift carpentry. We drank to our freedom in every regard and toasts let the bubbles lat out on the floor.

For all the miersery on the north shore, or hardnosed lesson of the southern. For the memories in the west and the day to day here, I could never be a man from another place and time. Today I share its destiny. Lick the salt from the rim, shoot the last of the night, and stumble back to an old stylus and ramble till dawn.