At Bernice State Campground, Gran Lake O' The Cherokees, Memorial Day weekend lakeside. Lots of drunk sunburned folks with foam beer cooler covers stumble by dressed in confederate flag tube tops and Molly Hatchet t-shirts. Swimming in yer t-shirt is obligatory in these parts. The air is moist and heavy with grilled dope smoke and a curious drawl. The lake is tepid to cool, a refreshing alternative to bucket seats and AC. It is lovely to be immersed in water however brown and bespeckled with dead fish and out-board/two stroke fuel that leaves a film on yer skin, a film you could peel like...like...a decal. Back at the tent, we sunned ourselves, drew campground debris, and wrote, while picking the occasional tick off exposed skin. Park lady in golf car comes by to collect $7.00. Anticipating rowdyness we inquire as to lights out/music down hour at the campground. "We like ya to have a good time, but round leven, leven thrity most people turn down the music." Au contrair golf cart dragster, it got louder round leven leven thirty, traffic increased with pickups returning with suitcases of beer veering their kleig-like headlights through the mesh door of our tent, pitched near a curve in the main road. We read Checkov aloud in the tent to drown out beastie boy bachnalian frenzy, and swear at ticks burrowing their way into hairy creases. At one point I heard, "dude, don't do it" and then screams and laughing panic and a bright glowing ball on the tent walls. I sat upright staring out the mesh curtain to see 12 foot flames peeling off a log and drunken kids dumping coolerfuls of lake water on the fire--one kid running into the field trying to stamp out his own flaming feet. I ran out of the tent huffing in search of the golf cart dragster. She was asleep in her trailer yet woke up and soon greeted me teetering on the front stoop saying something about her eye medication, and asking me if I knew how to drive a golf cart. By the time I got back to the tent flames were out, kids gone yet dueling distant acid rock continued tirelessly into wee hours.
     Back on the road early with bird soaked ears, gone be the fucking Bernice State Camp ground, hello freeway, HELLO TULSA, home of Ron, Ted, and Dick amongst others existing here, them no longer. Nothing profound or interesting to say about Ron, Ted, and Dick, and how they fled Tulsa and stormed New York to be poets, it's been written like,

SATURN OF TULSA -- TOP SHELF FAJITAS