What
I remember was White Flag chanting
There’s no place like
home, there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home
So where am I?
The
only lyrics I could repeat of the few I could make out
Amidst a
surreptitious immersion into punk
And
I certainly wasn’t going to mention the Buzzcocks around my mother
Though I knew the songs
by heart
Long were the Tucson summers spent with the Jensen
twins
Bruce
played the clueless Wave-er
Wanting
with all his heart to be Martin Gore
Belting out the dark
lines of “Black Celebration”
Byron
was polarly dissimilar in all but dates of birth
The consummate
skate-rat wannabe rebel
Both
had nerds for parents, both were bothered
Only Byron proved it
as often as he could
This
isn’t about them, they are vehicle, scene, backdrop
Them
and the mismatched retro 50’s thru 70’s canvas
Displaying
Early Christian Salvage décor of orange and earth-tones
This
is 25 years later at 2AM on a Thursday
2500 miles East of Tucson
Down
a deserted South Carolina midlands byway
I’ve
woken up once more to the realization that 40 came
The age of
untrustability times two
On
a very long day prior to another 2 very long days before some relief
Dog
butt beat down dragging lazy falling to pieces punch drunk tired
I
Flop down into the Blue Bomber ’83 Volvo GL
Turn on my fancy new phone
Tap on the Pandora
Dial in my
past pleasures
The
Circle Jerks station lights up the pre-pre-dawn night
Trapped in my trusty old sedan
This
will be the old scream-myself-home trick
Better than dying
(better than fading out) better than it is to rust
And
then that thing happens
You know that thing. It’s that thing
that makes poetry
The
one that lets you know you timed it just right
Out
of the pitch black night
Amid the screams of Black Flag
rhetoric
I
am passed by a black hearse
Which seemed to
materialize and then dissipate
From
and to nowhere, perfectly
I could easily be convinced
it didn’t even have headlights
The moment was so right
So for me
So punk rock
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