I was a punk rocker. A real one. Original Midwestern Hardcore Punk Thrash
loud and fast and angry enough to convey the depths of agony
residing in our adolescent breasts, the unspeakable (only screamable) pain
of being trapped like a bear in a sharp leg clamp,
tortured by the knowledge that we were ensnared in a system
we wouldn’t choose except under the threat of torture, and maybe not even then.
Not having a choice: “I want to have high ideals, I want to love mankind,
trust my fellow man, be loving true and kind – but everyone tells me ‘No!’ Everyone tells me
‘No such thing!’” That’s what upset us so in those naïve days before
we figured out how it’s all arranged.
For a minute or some decades . . . → Read More: Poem: A Brief Autobiography