Wednesday, June 15, 2005

Sequined Glove

The aging boy, man-child,
surgically mutated,
the Calif legal system's
rigamarole of metal detectors
as superstar and entourage pass through.
Apply the pale makeup today, the blank look--

Ooh, baby, baby
Where did our love go?

What to do when the cameras fade away,
when the music fades, the memory
of jack-up trousers with white socks?

The gates of the Neverland Ranch
where the seventh of nine children
slept with other children. Man-child.

Music makes you free--

His own private theme park
with Zipper ride,
ride the rollercoaster all night long.

A memory of twenty years ago--
the red leather jacket
with all the zippers, black-face boy
singing "Beat It"
reinventing the Sharks and Jets
for a new generation.
The kids flocked
to Waxie Maxie's
to plunk down their bucks
but that was then, this is now.

The cable news guys have packed up
their video equipment and gone home,
leaves blow in front of the gates.

Ooh, baby, baby
Where did our love go?
Ooh, don't you want me
Don't you want me no more
Ooh, baby--

The words echo in the belltower;
the armband, the sequined glove.

Christopher T. George

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