A dream as fodder for midlife musings:

 What would the teen me say were he to see 
 me now? Writing reactionary, nay, 
 fascist, poetry and imbibing the 
 best poets of the last Century. 
 
                                 What 
 would the teen me say were I to tell him 
 that, yes, your grug-brained skinhead buddies were 
 probably right all along: Perhaps the 
 only way we will ever get along 
 with the others in our midst is if we 
 separate from them?
                                   
                     I dreamt that last night
 that we were all together again, our 
 loose-knit tribe of skins, mods, punks and what I
 was at the time (a mulletted nerd in 
 heavy metal tee-shirts). But all growed up
 Or as grown up as we will ever be.

 And I dreamt that they remembered me with 
 the same epic fondness I remember 
 them with, each of them larger than life as 
 they were to me when we were that age: in 
 bomber jackets, jeans, and DMs.  
 
                                 But the 
 DMs and bombers were traded in for  
 the more middle-aged look of Hawaiian 
 shirts and cargo shorts. Drinking cheap beer and
 telling our sea stories. 
 
                          But other than 
 a few snapshot moments, I can’t recall 
 much else of that dream, nor of our times past.
 And maybe I was just peripheral or
 perhaps we were all just peripheral to
 each other’s central stories, a stillborn
 Proto-Mannerbund, but never knowing.