the theme is “hippies,” which is

of course a great irony, as the

chaperons (who patrol the room 

like pale shadows) will pounce on 

any kid with drugs or free love

or hope for peace. the statue of 

the mascot is an effigy costumed

in tie-dye and bell bottoms. where

are you, flower children? the revelers 

pose for pictures in front of posters 

slathered with anti-war slogans. what

was once revolutionary has aged into 

senile decoration. silly poses are struck 

next to the words that dripped from 

your lips as the policeman swung his

club. it’s rich, it’s all too rich. paper 

peace signs bob on strings above the

lunchroom door, jittery. inside is a cavern,

pulsating with popularity, braggadocious

beats careening off the walls. the

dancers are lacquered and shiny,

without a hint of your grime. we are 

your kin; birthed into tumult, mired in a 

world of stoic bleakness. and yet …

followers of leary, progeny of ginsberg,

i cannot even see your echoes. and so

i stand stock-still in the very heart of

it, gazing up at a crisscross of fairy 

lights amid this cacophony of gyrations,

and think of you. would you weep at 

the spectacle? or did you see it in your

mind’s eye all along?