Bonfire House

Green grass is lengthening round
The Camelot Apartments. Make a left
At the corner store; oh and don’t forget
The Rolling Rocks; don’t forget that green grass;
There’s gonna be good people at the house
Show: Make three left turns till Elm Circle

We each sat in the circle.
An orange ball glowed hot. Pedro rolled round
Resin in his fingers at the guys’ house.
The chicks complained about the taste and left.
An orange ball burnt out. “Left for real grass.”
And we should, too, or girls: We can forget

The apartment pool forgets
Nothing, and I swim alone in circles.
A Marlboro 27, some grass
Clippings, a beetle, and my thoughts float round
(If I ever touch down) there’s green glass left
On the pool floor: Tread water till the house.

Orange moon at Bonfire House
Melodies drift like we ought to forget
Them. Earth bones quake to bass tones someone left
Thundering in wet air like big circles.
The cackling flames call the revelers round.
In goes a Bic: Crimson tongues lick the grass

Emily passed the good grass
As resident Dank Top Witch of the house.
We servants of the ceremony round
Her calumet smoke a strain called Forget.
A language of curlicues and circles
Float like nautili: “There’s always some left.”

Pedro kept on walking left
Trampling a little path in the grass.
Hey man. Hey Pedro. Making a circle?
He said “I’m making music for the house.
It’s a slow, slow beat that I can’t forget
And one downbeat is equal to one round.”

Standing in a social sphere, gathered round
The generous fire: Some brains must forget.
Yet the moon doesn’t set on Bonfire House

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