Black Mountain

come to Black Mountain.
untie your hair
onto shoulders,
luminescent.

come to Black Mountain.
there are
apparitions
in the
underbrush.

come to Black Mountain.
we built our houses;
they're built good.

a poem to teen idols

mutually assured
resurrection
is the only hope we have
for pop music.
kid, with your celibacy,
are you unaware of
the intricate history of
pop music as
the sex that wets
that desert between
teenage girls shoulders?
I'm not asking for you to
play the guitar with dignity,
or even play it,
just realize your stature.
a seven foot man rarely
forsakes a career in basketball
or light bulb changing;
a blonde boy with swagger
(some may call it precociousness)
should not wear silvery
cuffs around his fingers.
hell,
act a little bit more like
early Michael.
stop being so subtle