Birth of Punk Rock
An aging warehouse with a cement floor,
broken glass, and swooning walls.
Proud of its code violations.
No ads or radio spots, you just had to
know this was the place.
Before the Dead Kennedys came on,
some other band played “Sit On My
Face, Stevie Nicks.” In the parking lot,
Some boys too young for facial hair
mocked my pal’s beard, “I’ll
bet you were at Woodstock, ” one
sneered. This was an epithet? I wish
I had been at Woodstock. I would have
stayed for Jimi after everyone else left.
Now it’s too late and it always will be.
Comments about this poem (Birth of Punk Rock by Michael Philips )
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