A parade with tanks versus a parade with tubas.

Both metal. Both go to war. Remember The Tuba Wars

of Upper Silesia? But only one guarantees oom pahs

and I'm a big fan of oom pahs. Is that the correct spelling

of oom pah? Here's the British: oome pahe. The French:

je suis a cigar. A parade with rocket launchers

versus a parade of ants wearing tiny black arm bands

for all the ants who've died under someone's shoe.

Time must be spent doing things that take time,

so I guess why not a parade of people singing

"I did It My Way" versus a parade of devices

meant to kill people who may or may not know

who Frank Sinatra was. This country doesn't need

a military parade, or another extra large soda,

or more quick oil change shops. A day at the beach

for America would be nice. Maybe see a movie

with Mexico or Canada. Perhaps a few adult

education courses, Advanced Hand-Holding

or Hand-Holding for Beginners for those new

to the dream of affection. My favorite parade thing:

big men in tiny cars wearing fezes, the men,

not the cars. But tiny cars wearing fezes

would be my favorite thing in all the world

as I understand it right now. Is this where I admit

I don't understand it at all, or do I do that

in another poem, maybe a poem with a shark in it

and me lost at sea in the ocean of the poem.

I know, a sea is not an ocean and a tank

isn't going to wear a fez any time soon.

I've got to go. It's getting early

and I'd like to be outside when the birds punch in.

When the parade of sunlight begins. My heart

is not a tuba, more of a piccolo, more of a home

my blood rushes to and runs away from

all day long. A parade of days and years

of trying to be better at knowing what I should want

to be better at. A parade of baby steps.

Should we live every day

as if we've just learned to ride a bike,

or should we ride bikes as if we're playing tag

with the wind? Yes. And should there be

other choices? No.