0001 Punks - Poem by Lori Boulard
Not believing in anything I just sit,
listening to my breathing.
After thirty years
It still goes in and out.
We see the world through blackened eyes
and heavy shoes, dead-set non-conformists,
every one armed with black iron hair,
steel chains, and barb-wire biceps.
We wear a uniform of all black, but this
is New York where everyone does.
South of Bleecker we congregate
like cousins at a wedding,
determined not to care, but we do.
Our parents don't understand.
The police are against us, and
the government has failed.
You admit we have a point.
On Sunday mornings we move
from one end of Greenwich to the other,
paired up like zippers
on an old leather jacket, chanting lyrics
like psalms reaffirming our religion.
Give us time. We are only just beginning
to question everything, understand
less, believe in nothing.
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