At the Open season Opera
all the harlequins gather in tattered minds
puppets of sands and soil emerge from undergrowth
those mice that cannot even govern their mindlessness
gape to proffer counsels to the wise in vainglorious *****
they precede themselves and pronounce themselves only to deviate
in their spheres of magical thinking rabbits in the hat are themselves
the gnarling of fore sights becomes the expose of ignorance in duds
tribalists in desperation speak in tongues and see visions for a living
neither here nor there the fun provided is knowing the wasted efforts
the degree of their  occupied souls and joyless fanaticism of the wasted
say it not but their punishment resides in them and their odious job
as entranced they spill and pay homage to who they can never be