Tiny Gods Hiding

The bohemian teenagers of Edgemere,
innocent of nothing but hygiene and regulation,
wear the public faces of tiny gods hiding.
Feed them tequila and they'll smooth your path.

Forty days in the wilderness
of alley canyons and rooftop mesas
flenses the plaque of propriety from their souls
and sets up sofas inside their minds
for godlings to surf, just for a while.

Wily urges take over their voices
and let slip secrets to each other.
Listen to them chatter while they
chain-smoke handrolled cigarettes
and gulp coffee on a sunny stoop.
They'll jumpstart your sense of wonder.

They'll peel away the touch-ups and repairs;
the cloudy lacquer that your mind has applied
to the fresco of your reality
and show the lowest layer,
brushed into the wet plaster of your childhood.

You'll be shocked
at how vivid the colors seem.