Confessions of a Punk Rock Vocalist
I stared the crowd down squinty,
a jaw tooth grinding, neck vein
I fisted the mike like a baseball
and spit the windscreen drenched
with naive codified lyric.
They took it all in.
The blender chewed them
to a fine puree of sweat,
bodies and stomped glasses.
And I eyed them squinty,
angry less at Reagan,
angry less at their sheepish
at proliferation or the grim
disparities of class or color -
more so at the soap
in my hair that gave me spine
and drooled stinging into my eyes.