Where Have All the Happy Poems Gone?
I heard something about a rave -- none of us
received an invitation, of course -- heard they
were headed downtown tonight, to an empty warehouse
along the river, one of those high ceilinged spaces
manic with graffiti and cooing pigeons that flutter
like celestial doves in shafts of sunset, where broken
glass and crushed concrete manages to be artistic
rather than menacing. A grrrrrl band with blue hair
and lots of feedback will jam electric under
the pulsing lights, screaming "no sleep tonight,"
and of course the poems will get high, ecstatically
mindless, slipping a new designer drug, P, that leaves
no trace, no hangover, in its wake, into their bottles
of expensive spring water -- floating, weightless,
sweating clear joy as they bob and shake and grind
together in a frenzy of sexy fellow feeling.
In the morning, it will be as if they never existed --
just an empty plastic bottle or two rolling in the rising
sunlight, a forgotten glow stick on the gum spattered
sidewalk, fading bright green to blue to gray.
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