There may be reason to hide but
you slide beneath the seating
before I’ve time to notice
you’re gone and so introduce
her to an empty chair where
once there was a friend of mine
who had the time to talk to
strangers but now sits a
shadow not cast on the retinas
of the clothed eyes we find
to reside in the sockets of
once naked former children
who have been socialized far
from the source of their
being tree climbing varmints
granddads chastised lovingly
who now tiptoe a-go-go around
the logo with a hole in
and fall in fruitlessly
with a thousand bonneted
bees, keeping knees bent
for better posturing at
promotions that might tip
the balance towards the
affable bragablity that
affords the shagability
required to socialize
children far from the source
of their being beautiful
because they shine from
the inside out not the
outside being thin or
allowed to be different
by virtue of exploitable
exceptionality, that singular
talent once granted great
men and greater women the
chance to show the world
what it could be but now
grants less men and lesser
women the chance to spear
the souls of the dead
for fear they might
upstage them when they
rise from turning to the
overture of otherworldly
oration thrumming like a
thousand drums cumming
all at once they say ‘that’s
it, that’s enough,
you’ve fucked it,
it’s down to us now,
it’s time we took back
what we left you’, and they
lay them down in their
still warm graves to
die as vicariously
as they’d lived through
the former dead who never
slid beneath the seating
but stood and made love to
the world so each day the
breeze sang the song of
a thousand living dead drums
thrumming and cumming in
unison, an operatic orgasm
of the open air and
open minds reclaiming time
so we might find trees to climb.