315 Bowery

i thought i was punk rock,

flaunting clenched teeth.

the straight-edge spirit,

smothered in pot smoke,

tripped

over

untied

converses.

my apathy

slapped some silly stickers

and drew on my bass;

i felt shame while playing it.

their seditious spiked mohawks

dysphorically strummed

during the sunday morning -

sermons seemed so surreptitious.

i sat cultivating

a wayward,

whimsical

afro.

in reading the anti-war novels,

i thought i was prepared for the ghastly

horrors of life, but the preacher's daughter

wearing her purple prom dress

never loved me;

i thought i was punk rock,

but I was really

just a sniveling boy.