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.
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.
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.