Sixty degrees on solstice day.
An incubator.

If we go to the beach we can find all the bones of the dead animals
that are supposed to be buried in the snow
and throw them in the lake.
We can dip our heads in the cold water
to wash away these nasty thoughts
growing on our brains like bacteria in the warm weather,
send them into the lake with the bones and the souls of the dead animals
that are supposed to be buried in the snow.

The supercharged atmosphere
zaps my fingers when I open the car door.
Static electricity.

If I collect all that ecstatic magic
I'll let you hold it in your hands
in a jar
and we can watch it dance.
A hundred million fireflies
that should have died on the lips of
December.

Unhinge your jaw and shut your eyes
because the best things in life are simply felt,
and you’ll feel it everywhere if you’re doing it right.
A spark of electricity will ignite where your tongues dance
and it will sizzle through your teeth and down your throat,
lighting fires where you didn’t think could burn.
Curl your toes and knot your fingers into her hair like it is your lifeline.
Weld yourselves together, crawl into each other.
Run your tongue along hers until everything tastes like ‘we’.
Don’t forget to breathe; share the air until it’s gone
and all you have left to survive on is each other’s souls.
And whatever you do, don’t stop kissing her.
If you do, your lips will lose all meaning
because their only purpose now is to taste hers.
Your eyes will open and the world will seem a little grayer
As your soul untangles itself from hers.
Your tongue will become a defibrillator,
trying to revive the moment,
trying to recreate the electricity only you two can make.

I heard an uppy jingle behind me
and my long tired feet told me
they could make it to the street's song.
I glided past
clouds of sugar with a glimmer
in my eye,
pain forging with each stride.
Childhood was only a few moments behind.

With a tensing of lashes tight,
tired soles left
caramel kisses exploring
dense sweet air.

Thousands of fireflies synchronized together.
a tangible magic
flew through the energetic night.
I was hypnotized.

There was babies' laughter,
to my right,
and, to my left,
a group of seven year olds.

A blue ribbon strewn through the air
preventing eager children
from joining the dance
of man-made insects
on cars lacking drivers.

With a similar gaze of innocence,
I sat beside them with crossed legs.
Enchanted,
bewildered,
awed,
my heart sung with every song.

I saw a princess dawned
on a brilliance of blue,
her steps
graceful and light.
An unwavering smile strewn on her lips.

I was stung by fairy tale's
enchanted kiss.
And then I saw:
true beauty;
like a dove,
natural,
organic,
pure.

My one and only was smiling above.
I ushered for her to join me
lost in childhoods last glory.
She took my hand
and I stood with her,
I left with a world to be unfurled.

I've been in a hurricane
since I met you
And it's been proven that I must learn to live in this storm
Endure the fog
feel it's currents
it's waves
it's paralyzing winds
But when we're together it subsides
Everything stops
The center of the storm
And I wonder how I could ever leave
Or remember how to breathe

Insipid darkness
is no better womb for
thoughts.
Decent thoughts, maybe good
GREAT thoughts.
Thoughts that will flow
like the lava of imported electricity
not-but-should-be circulating in Gaborone's veiny grid.

But who cares?
Well, okay, your mother, now swearing
at the singed-black TV screen
(she's missed her daily soap).

Mother Darkness breeds thinkers.
Tell me, in the scramble for your cellphone flashlight,
did you find your inner Plato?
Ah, no, you surely became
a lightbulb,
humming with the shocks of unwritten words.

It is these minutes of lightless inertia when
it's best to tap your swollen top instead
of lighting a candle.
See, sun rays and tube lights dull the finish of ideas;
corporation-induced darkness provides more suitable conditions.
So you must tap the glass globe on your shoulders
and feel, yes,
feel the grey filament
within, buzzzzzzzz

Electricity.

Edison's 'Eureka!' finally
happening, as all 'Eurekas!' do, in
(literally) colourless mundane.

(Note to self: Write a thank-you email to that pathetic power corporation for your rebirth as a glow)

Thoughts.
Thoughts and thoughts, thoughts,
thoughts.
                 thoughts,
   thoughts,
thoughts and  
                            thoughts,
coming in viscous gallops,
extra voltage baby, thoughts!
Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts,

IDEA.

You are no longer living!
You exist as shards of yes, one GREAT whole,
one...brace-taste the word now...
idea.

You are glimmers of something greater.
You are hot charges of energy your country failed to harness.

Sparked at the flick
of a lazy corporation's switch:
they

cut the power which
cut the flow in the varicose veins of Gaborone which
cut your bedroom's plastic brightness which
cut the bored-contented moment you were wallowing in which
cut your breath (still-half-scared of the dark, you) which
cut the blood flow to your grey matter which
cut the oxygen supply, replaced the fuel with electricity

and then you could think.

Thoughts
and  
thoughts
and

what will you do with them? If
you dare the sun's brilliance,
you might land up as some poor Icarus;
if you wait a half-volt longer,
I'm afraid the fuse will blow, madam and
your mother cannot comprehend these blue-light shocks,
please find a paper and a pen
immediately.

Ah.
So the electricity must, after all,
power something.
And in the crackling dash
to eke out your blow-blaze-brim-burn words
onto something that will last longer
than today's ration of blackness,

the power comes back.

Mind chars into itself.
Snuffed too soon, you pathetic power corporation,
why did you put me out like that?

Your mother turns to you and mutters
'Thank God.'

wandering hands;
searching for
the unknown,
feeling for
perfect emotion,
wanting to
never
let go.
electricity
pulses through
your veins,
you know
it's right,
it's so
wrong
that it's
*absolutely
right.

slight smile
knowing, yet intrigued
by the wonderfulness of life
that seems dreamlike to be real;
by the inkling of a poem
that’s like a baby refusing to leave its womb;
by the sparks that fly
at the thought of your lover.
just a slight smile
knowing, yet intrigued,
when billions of volts of electricity
transport the smiler
to a world that
exists
but not really.

We pose for a photo
Your hand
On the small of my back
Smile, click, flash,
And you forge a path down and away
And I am wide wide awake
We pose for a photo
Your hand
On my arm
Smile, click, flash,
And you trace your fingers down and away
And I am wide wide awake
These shocks you give me
Could power Tokyo
But they're all mine
And I can only stand and be electrocuted by your little touches
While you find energy elsewhere
I need you like an artificial heart needs a charge
You need me like a light switch in a thunderstorm

In my little-boy town up north
rivers were not yet plugged.
Poled men came down and watched
for silvered flashes.

Pink would be inside and make
a mouth want to melt it down.
The river power we would sing
Guthrie-style in grade school,

how rolling power and darkness
were misaligned, how wild
river and light was such empty logic,
and little boys learn to forget.

In school, where poor men send
the next young nation, a new
nation conceived in hydrodamnation
and simple salmon ******.

Little boy rain from Rockies
going near my door, and whipped
whirlpools spinning funnels of
quick deadening swim traps,

so stay so far from bad river,
doing nothing more than
running off to sea. Stay near shore
and enjoy the new electricity.