1982 or ‘69 Redux Punk rock was still novel then, and with it, We embraced violence and destruction, Delinquency and desolation, lighting fires At White Gates among the rusting hulls Of abandoned cars, worn out sofas, and Bullet riddled appliances, dancing through The flames in an embrace of all that consumes, The darker side of America’s taut stretched Monotheism, shunned by the light, forgetting That we were once tucked-in at night in our Snoopy pajamas under Dinosaur sheets to Wait for Santa Clause and the Easter Bunny, And the smell of Doc Martins, their souls Melting, melding, unifying with the shit that Found its way into the hungry embers filled The air, mixing with shockwaves of dust Which rose from the thundering feet of Eight or ten boys, slamming their way around A ring of fire, shouting “Fuckin’ eh!” To the pulse driving power of Social Distortion.
David R. Miller's Questions:
What is your first impression? Does it make you sad, or can you sense a feeling of ebullient reminiscence? Does this poem manage to stir a bit of sympathy for those of us who tried to find a new path on an old planet? Whadda ya think?