When Youth Exists in Our Vase

When youth exists in our vase,

And the sun has not revolved around the sprinkled closet,

Or chewed the celery stalk,

After the rilling molecules cool,

In the first vat,

We run on grass,

Obviously green,

Wearing baseball gloves

To catch the circular mother.

Youth hides in the egos of old age,

Behind the stoic walking stick,

And the warming family,

Fireplace ideals,

That stroke our bar-room memories

Purified by the Christmas wreath.

We are family America.

The family is anti-terrorist,

A glorious fear that eases our inflationary napalm course,

Of credit-card sexuality,

Jungian surfing safaris,

St. John Revelations,

Wood carvings,

Dipped in ink,

Then smashed on Bibles,

That burn the conscious,

The seekers and sages,

And what is left of our youth.