We told citronella secrets
Under the summer stars
When the Christmas lights burned
Out of the airy tent
The tiki torch tradition
Was newly begun.

We told laughing love stories
As we walked the phantom dog
Down the silent, midnight road
Occasionally lit up by giggling headlights.

We drank soda from crinkling cans
Sipping down our suppositions
Rehashing the year and all
Our misconceptions by the
Light of the tropical
Tribal flames.

We told citronella secrets
And shared our autumnal fantasies.

Candle flicker

Keeps mosquitos away

The wind is picking up

No sound to be heard but paper crumpling rustle of aspens

A **** seagull squaks; only here 

This is desert living

Desert loving

We have a porch

It kind of feels like heaven

Just the moon and lamplights

And pajamas with no undergarments 
Citronella smell

Dry breeze

Skin no longer chapped

Weathered from my initiation 

During the apex of summer when I read outside at midnight

Once upon a time there was an Italian,
And some people thought he was a rapscallion,
But he wasn't offended,
Because other people thought he was splendid,
And he said the world was round,
And everybody made an uncomplimentary sound,
But he went and tried to borrow some money from Ferdinand
But Ferdinand said America was a bird in the bush and he'd rather have a berdinand,
But Columbus' brain was fertile, it wasn't arid,
And he remembered that Ferdinand was married,
And he thought, there is no wife like a misunderstood one,
Because if her husband thinks something is a terrible idea she is bound to think it a good one,
So he perfumed his handkerchief with bay *** and citronella,
And he went to see Isabella,
And he looked wonderful but he had never felt sillier,
And she said, I can't place the face but the aroma is familiar,
And Columbus didn't say a word,
All he said was, I am Columbus, the fifteenth-century Admiral Byrd,
And, just as he thought, her disposition was very malleable,
And she said, Here are my jewels, and she wasn't penurious like Cornelia the mother of the Gracchi, she wasn't referring to her children, no, she was referring to her jewels, which were very very valuable,
So Columbus said, Somebody show me the sunset and somebody did and he set sail for it,
And he discovered America and they put him in jail for it,
And the fetters gave him welts,
And they named America after somebody else,
So the sad fate of Columbus ought to be pointed out to every child and every voter,
Because it has a very important moral, which is, Don't be a discoverer, be a promoter.

we went to Little Blue
that summer in a ***'d car.
riding in extravagance
we couldn't afford.
camping in the Oklahoma ozarks,
we brought liquor. the two of us
drank a half-litre honey whiskey
and twenty-eight of thirty Pabsts.
your chick only nab'd two.
we were sunk from that point on.
i *****'d behind the car, and
there were left retched handprints.
left were a phantom's handprints,
having been drown'd by their hedonism.
the bikers partied along
with us apart from us.
they ask'd to use our hatchet,
that's the way we met.
men share tools, and that was
the only instance of civility
for two days. we ran feral.
rip'd shirt to ribbons,
wrap'd them 'round a stick,
soak'd citronella,
commenced adventure.
returning,
   two hours time gone;
returning,
   scratch'd and bleeding;
returning,
   we lit their paths with
   torch burning a primal fire;
sleep,
pass'd out by fire in lounge chair.
been in this spot before,
knew to bring a quilt
and mine was the only one.
startled awake,
fire nothing more than nightlight embers.
raccoon, sitting upright,
stared from his high perch of a picnic table.
apple in paws, nibbling,
he mock'd and monitor'd.
i swiped at it with a stick,
missed. said **** it.
slept in the car that night.

It makes me think of the cloud
Human heart-shaped humble
Floating alone against an onyx horizon

We see it because of the lightning
It wants us to know of its presence
Through inner struggle

I imagine that is how the heart works
Lightning bolts from the top to the base
From the sides
The smallest thunder

Even little voices stop us in our tracks sometimes

On a porch in a cabin in the woods
Even when we get away
Some things never leave us

It smells like citronella
but still feels like bug bites
a certain kind of back-of-mind reminding

It tastes like laughter
and feels like deep breaths when I need this more than ever

Life suckerpunches you in the gut
And sometimes feels like killing yourself backwards
When you finally get that gasp
You realize how sweet your own breath actually is

It is so sweet
Like them

A perfect collection of breath forming smoke
from the cold
and the ****
and the cigarettes

It warms me
Fills me like a lone lighting cloud competing with the beauty of a horizon
with simple flashes of light and the quietest thunder

Hear me heartbreak and simple chatter

Makes me think of the boy with the hospital gown smile
and the hopeless optimism

My beautiful back-of-mind bug bite
when we both need this healing

Healing is a fire sometimes
That feels like at any moment
It will burn out
But the embers pulse a diligent glow
to bring this back to life

Bring me back to life you poorly polished diamonds
We will reflect your light and bend the beams an entire spectrum

Notice me and this quiet voice
The smallest thunder and flashes of light like living Morse code

The simplest message

And this feels so much like a bent harmonica inhale
A beautiful gasp
A collection of smoke made from ***** lung laughter that doesnʼt rain
Only begs you to join it like the voice of god in a thunder storm

He speaks Morse code lightning
If you look carefully the voice is always there

The answer is always

you

The answer is always

you

it is circulated deep into the soil
that you’ve wore the dress of paraffin

in the multidimensional wind of the winter
the cash-memo of the recently purchased
gold-bangles
would reside for some time more

then all the pregnant women
would assemble in the river-ghat
to meditate on the paddy-blossoms

all diamonds and clubs
would overcome their insomnia

through this arrangements
the crushing-news of fostering
flows

this dilution is well-known

the river-ripple of the air
after reading the sun
would keep some extension of dahlia
on its palms

in an unwritten evening
the demi-god-birth of the fire-flies
would break

their easy dead bodies
by the instigation of the surges
would  ring … and ring… and ring
and spread cheerfulness


the elderly rain-tree comes to spray anti-biotic
on the spoilt top-branch of the young lad
covered with citronella

sweet child of the stars-
never forget these bright lights
and pages of gold

blaze of fireflies-
momentarily trapped in
mason jars; glass-hewn

a saturday evening in july of 1987, pottstown, pennsylvania. the moon peaks over the horizon, craning its neck at the carcasses of lost dreamers littered across the landscape. denim jacket, stone wash; unintentionally half-popped collar. a glass of cinzano bianco in one hand and store-bought iced tea in the other. eight wicker chairs on the deck; chittering and smiling and shuffling and laughing. an evening soirée illuminated solely by stars and citronella candles.  sticky, humid night. grill roars heat as yet another batch of burgers are flipped. step down into the murky dark.

fireworks ignite-
brilliance across nightsky
eyes gaze in wonder

new-age americana at its finest—

we are here and we are now. the product of every moment leading up to now. smoldering remnants of infinite reactions, extraordinary in their own right. what are you cultivating within? what will stay and what will go? what will take hold and manifest? what legacy, what footprint do you dare to leave on the sands of time? in this sublime psalm of life, we can only dream.

I

Tiny, they dance through me on the green wind;
They breathe me in: flame-inflammable and time
Out of memories. Damsels in foreign stories long eaten.
Yet I feel so drowsy. Martyr-like they whisper trails
Of their sugar dust onto my face and make me
Itch. I scratch with citronella nails and burst
Forward into the night. One imagines they’ll follow,
Seeing as how they think I’m their sun.

Do you remember that summer we spent with the
Dead? Maybe it was too long ago for you, but you
Always woke me for the sunsets. I remember.
And there was some song or other that kept break-
Ing through the radio… with the raindrops and some
Stately clock that I always associated with you.

II

You were always underneath me
Writing those idiotic sonnets.

When you broke water-heavy from
Me, of course I tried to follow.

The song to which you referred
Was “Night and Day”, but you know
I can always remember the words
To you better than any foolish
Song. There’s a torch within me
Keeps repeating “You. You. You.”