Transcendentalism is a techno rave.
The pounding tempo and shrieking dubstep,
bass reverberating through bejeweled chests.
Communion in candy bracelets,
exchanged from my wrist to yours.
This is divine consciousness.
Funhouse mirror bodies collide like billiard balls,
the grinding hips of youth.
Back cutouts, side cutouts, and midriffs everywhere.
There is something spiritual in exotic birds.
In the multicolored majesty of gyrating
figures of resplendent plumage —
metallic silver and aztec gold,
pearl pink and glacier blue.
We find revelation in rainbow
fishnets, latex spandex, and lycra.
I trace gemstones across your collarbones,
lost in your cosmetics.
Your pink glitter and obsidian eyeshadow,
glass skin and dewy lips.
This is catharsis.
The white sky opens and outpours its feelings.
Rain pooling into rouge,
pink rivulets streaking your face,
iridescent tears falling down.
Transcendentalism is a techno rave.
Subliminal sensations beyond my understanding
ghosting across my nerves.
Emerson dwells in your emerald eyes,
alight with the oversoul.
In your mouth, I find Thoreau.