Burning Man

You're heading out to the desert
to the place where they burn the man -

Looking post-apocolyptic in ski goggles
making bike tracks in smoking sand.
One thousand critical tits will kick up crimson dust
red clay will mat your hair.
You'll bathe in high noon sun's sweat
as acoustics run down your back.
A house-height vagina will parade
down tent-city's street
putting Georgia O'Keefe to shame.
Doctors will become burlesque
toting their whips and chains.
You'll get a henna tattoo stamped on your ass
'cause you can play the game.
Laced up in leather,
you'll eat a magic cookie,
escaping this fantasy place
where hope suspends from The Big Dipper
shining in smog-free sky
and you'll realize that you -
you are vanilla
cool and classic
elegant throughout time.