It's time to contemplate
the twilight of post-modern idols
- An Ideal
can we live for one?

We lay out what we stand for
in simple platitudes
then spend all our time
defining what we're not
despite all the death done
in its name
Protecting Freedom's
just an umbrella
replace "carpet bomb families"
with "neutralize enemies"
- who threatened our Liberty

but that means
sway elections away from those
that reject economic puppetry
Cut the cord
if you want us to buy Contras
Reaganomics define
Drug War: Sold crack,  
bought guns from Iran,
fund death squads
in Nicarag-Hooah!

Freedom's lambs
they had to die
They tried to reach out
against exploited workers
so even Catholic priests
got murked
Yes, murdered
but also muddied
in the waters of
historiography's story
As in, no one studies history

Today's armchair historians
they just find bargains
and hero worship
while they channel surf
Pulled by yachts
they don't make waves
Oceans abound but
most just coast
in creeks and canals
No Wake Zones
Think you're woke, bro?
You just came up
with a narrow strait thought
that was simply dismissed
by Heraclitus of Ephesus
nearly three millennia ago
Your certainty of knowing
brings danger of you drowning
Cause "Ever-newer waters flow
on those who step into the same rivers."

All I know is fire
so burn a hen for Prometheus
and we'll topple poser's podiums
then yoga flame them back to oneness

Cause after horrific mediation
and barring off public relations
You'll catch me drunk playing video games
with butchers and their daughters

Woman at diner who knew Fugazi,
I wear all these pins
on my denim jacket
waiting for someone like you
because a t-shirt isn’t
loud enough.

Woman who knew Fugazi,
waitress at diner,
had “seen them twenty times,”
without exaggeration—

with cracking olive skin
and graying curly black
hair to her shoulders,

the light refracting off my pin
my friend bought at a record store
in Philly      reflecting her the image
of a slender, voluptuous youth
donned in fake leather
worn Levis and beat Vans

shaking her mop of jet-black curly hair
in a throng of like-minded dressed
individuals in a dingy club
          angsty Washingtonians
fleeing the Reagan Youth

mad at Capitalism
mad at Middle Class,
mad at Excess, Abuse, Malaise—
driven by the furious punk rhythms
of sweat-drenched Fugazi.

Woman who knew Fugazi,
friends with Ian MacKaye,
hadn’t seen him in years—

waitress at restaurant
where the scrambled eggs are dry
and the coffee is stale.

Waitress at diner,
Mother now,
wife, adult,

                 [[punk]]
at heart.