if i have to explain it to you
then it probably never existed
in a well-represent'd enough form
to deserve acknowledgement of
the highly embellish'd state
of your own mind and actions
that brought the mingling of
souls once cherish'd abroad
sunken to fetters of not chains
but words with meaning as
the force propelling them
paradoxical in that
propulsion is antithetical
in terms of the definition 'fetter'.

couple hours sitting,
self-inclusive psych time.
when we came to we
grab'd some beer and
went down to the dam'd creek -
namesake of our campsite.
water a constant sixty-degrees even
in triple-digit Oklahoma summers.
immersed myself to avoid
fear of the cold, and
heart palpitated as i
sat down with water up to chest.
began pounding rocks
together. under the water.
like a silent neanderthal
shaping the first tools.
you sank the beers and we linger'd a bit.
children splash'd in deeper water,
she made comments of their endurance.
final thought before head'd home,
no children died on the Titanic.

and i'll make it up to you
by buying all the ****** of Amsterdam.
not just rent, but buy.
and i keep walking in circles
as my thoughts do the same.
and i am waiting for
the break, the peak.
and my pack looses cigarettes
with every circle drawn.
and hey hey, my my.
and i skip a step.

you hand'd me a handful,
you hand'd her a handful,
you retain'd your handful -
done by sight, something
rare to be a good omen.
eyes met collectively
as we contemplated.
dry musty taste, almost retch'd.
the sun shone bright, and
it was too late to turn back.
we giggled a bit at first, and
you found miss'd cap.
pop'd it. commenced vomiting.
your tryp never peak'd.
your chick laid on blue lounge chair
calling me over. commenting:
"it looks like ground beef, doesn't it?"
her finger pointing at
pile of *****. my stomach churning,
vision as well,
collapsed into chair in shade.
-- lapse in space,
it had come on too fast, too hard,
and i went to find more driftwood.
my fire had become sacred,
burning only the long dead.
the brined and dried.
i skid down scree hill on heels
to find snake on my path;
startled, it slid off -
no concern.
drift'd from initial plan to
explore an alter'd world,
saw spider and *****'d.
cleansed.
and back to collecting my driftwood.
fire raging midday,
lounging in shad;
sun raging midday,
cruising out this end'd tryp;
wondering in constant if that
spider ever had his tryp.

shiver'd awake,
no rain-guard on your tent.
beautiful to see the stars
when that drunk sends you spinning,
but it got cold. real cold.
the two of you went for
cigarettes. necessary,
after a blur'd night
with raiding raccoons.
****'d the night before,
****'d the morning after;
you were right hungover.
while gone,
i built the fire to cook.
(that fire,
that fire was my baby)
rations were raid'd
by wildlife in the night,
left were a can of
chili and some fritos.
knifed the top off can,
began breakfast.
your return brought
cigarettes,
hair of the dog,
excitement at the day beginning.
mention'd dog hair,
available only after
raccoon raids and sinking cans.
night prior we weren't
as drunk as i think.
i remember. i guess.
it fix'd us up, though,
as our immoderate breakfast hit home.

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.

so i got these emotion things
i don't quite know how to express
when every face i see
is yours
with some odd personality
conceal'd by eyes a milky-hazel.
there's some reason you are
the end vowel in CATO,
there's some reason you're
only five lines long.
we found in passing mutual interest
trump'd by your own,
and you squander'd my time.
it's late now, and
the dead Greek's guitar
weeps after learning
hands which once graced it
would never again caress.
after a minute,
i follow'd in a
wake left by fleeting feet,
in attempt at egress, but
our beautiful mountain was gone.
i don't sleep these days,
i wouldn't credit you,
the devil went to bed with us
and he sleeps pretty good.
no, i wouldn't credit you.
credit due this silent machine
of mathematics and neuro-electric rhythms,
sparking, igniting,
some neuroleptic response
as i lapse in paradox.