Poem: A Brief Autobiography

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 of my life I learned

to play the game, the same one I had vowed as a teenager

never to accept.

One day I realized I was not once a punk rocker.

I am one. Whatever that is.

I was a Clitboy, and I still am.

Now we’re playing a different game.