Click here for a reading by the poet
The fields are half-a-mile from my house,
Our campsite mere years from reality.
Burning wood creates fleeing embers to heaven,
Dancing and swirling through the air until they disappear.
We feast on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
That never escape the dust and dirt before we eat them.
We talk of girls that throw our hearts into a whirlwind;
We will “ make” them all—they will want us, maybe.
The thought of staying awake all night
Makes this mystery.
Back to the ground on old blankets,
Others sleeping, I fix on the stars.
The transistor radio slices dark air with tunes of
“Candy Girl” and “Runaway”
As the all-night jock is
Chatting like a caffeine-laced, hyperactive child.
Just then an uneasy sense
In the darkness hits my nerves:
What monster lays waiting to get us?
Fireflies float ‘round this innocent campsite
Like newborn
Clouds of napalm.
D. J. Haslett
Copyright 2001
Audio Engineer: Scott Miller of Exit7a.com