With their rock music and their Led Zeppelins

and their hooting hollering howling at the moon

and their glowing red asses and their bulbous

top-down crests and convertibles and their

freaky long fingers (like Catwoman like scree-

ee-ee and crawl through a circular hole in

the window/in the wall) and their boobs are

all like just hanging out there in the salty

acid breeze, do they like even have parents

or what these days, with their sniffing of

the fecund anal glands of academic philosophy

and their Pabst Blue Ribbon and their participation

ribbons and their well-patted little heads

and their drooling dissemination of DNA

and their hearsay and their heresy and their

hearsay and their mirrors and their mirrors

and their mirrors and their bravery, real bravery

to be rude be bold and their mirrors that shatter

and display me in fragments, these damn kids,

and they sneer, because they know I am one,

but at least they are not scattered into the prismatic

ashes of our ancestors’ machinations, right, right?