That Band

 That Band

So, here’s my secret:

after the fall of that band

I could not consume

art for months (at a point,

I wondered if I ever would

be able to again).

I moved around

my apartment to silence,

all I watched on TV

were cooking shows or the nightly news.

I only read non-fiction essays and articles

or news stories.

 

Slowly, I let art

back into my life,

but not artists.

 

Even now, three-quarters of a year

later, I can barely stand to listen to

artists talk about their art.

Not on radio, TV, nor podcasts.

I won’t read interviews of artists.

 

I don’t want to hear it,

I want to push artists away;

consume their art, but from

a distance.

At this point, I still have to separate

the art

from the artist.

 

(The betrayal still cuts

deep. And I was just a supporter.)

 

I know it’s not fair

to the good, the decent,

the caring artists.

But I think my heart

is still hardened, caged in, as protected

as I can make it,

at this point.

 

Maybe someday

I will settle

and be able to let

artists in again.

*****

Familiar Anticipation

Familiar Anticipation

 

The air buzzes

with an energy

that I’ve only ever felt

at a punk show.

Reverb rolls across the floor,

up from my feet

through to the top of my skull.

 

The local(ish) band

strikes their first chord,

and the room explodes

the way it does when you know

the night will be perfect.

*****

Punk Fam

 Believe Survivors!

Punk Fam

 

“People don’t hang

their whole lives

on a music scene,

but we do.”

- Kristina Sarhadi

 

If you had told me

a week ago that the

poem about posers

I was working on

would turn into a poem

about one of my favorite front men,

I would’ve have believed you.

I would have been pissed,

called you an ass,

said you didn’t know him.

 

But on Wednesday night,

with a bleak four-sentence statement,

we learned that the band was

no more.

And the grounds of

our scene, our community

started to shake.

In disarray, we thought that the band

had been hacked.

But as time continued on

we learned of a podcast,

the podcast, that would take

our front man down,

tear his façade away,

and reveal him to be

the monster

that he was supposed

to fight with, and for, us against.

 

And as the support beams

under our scene, our community

faltered, we reached out

and grabbed one-another.

We vowed that this monster

was done betraying us.

We pledged our support

to his victims,

his bandmates,

his crew.

And vowed to hold on to

the music, how it changed us,

and the community we built around it.

 

‘This is all such

a surreal thing;

mourning the loss of a favorite band,

and at the same time

coming to terms with the fact

that the front man

is a fraud and a predator.’

-Punk Fam Discord

---

Untitled IV

 Untitled IV 

‘How can I show

my punk side at work?’

was a question posed

in a feminine punk space recently.

Shoulder tattoos of band logos

peaking out from under

a sleeveless dress,

my band-logoed pick necklace

standing out in red

from muted clothes,

my water bottle covered

in stickers from punk labels,

podcasts, and record stores.

 

At times when I must

be more subtle,

I make sure

that my spiked earring is visible.

Or I affix buttons from bands

to the lapel of a plain black jacket.

 

I brand myself

as best I can when I go out.

I wear the shirt that proclaims

I am a flame-throwing feminist,

or one that reminds us to,

“Know Your Roots”

as skins and punks.

 

I shield myself in black hoodies,

but put on my “stompy boots”

to make myself seem harder

then I know I feel.

 

But at the end of the day,

we must remember

what Tony Sly told us about being punk:

“Do whatever you want to do.

Without any reservations.”

But that’s another discussion.

People Scare Me

People Scare Me

People scare me.

Mostly I’m referring to

the concept of “People.”

People, other beings, other entities

all together.

People scare me.

 

People watch me,

and seemingly, only me.

Eyes digging, minds waiting,

“What is fuck is she even doing?”

People scare me.

 

I’ve been tossed and turned

by people.

Lied to, made a fool,

by people.

 

I accidently wrote,

“People scar me.”

People have scared me,

rejected, subjected, molested me.

People scar me.

 

My people, I adore.

They protect me, watch over me.

Hide me, shield me,

push me. Drive me.

My people know me.

***

Us Against the World

Us Against the World

Those were the days

of us against the world!

Fighting for living wages, healthcare,

inclusion, dignity.

With the stakes higher,

the implications of our failure

reverberated wider than others’,

we Thrived!

 

Exhausted at the end

of our day,

but we stayed up late,

partied, discussed things

the truly mattered.

 

We were on top

of the World!

We started young,

fresh faced, full of hope

and the ‘knowledge’ that

if we just spread our message

and got others to follow

in our footsteps

we would absolutely

change our world!

 

We grew up on this road,

on the road. Older then,

our resolve steadfast,

a calm resolve,

that we did

Still Mattered.

 

And lights faded

on our time at the helm,

we welcomed a new generation

of activists.

We passed the torch

and grieved for what

we were not able to

accomplish, to change.

 

Some days

it still weighs on me.

The Cause

The Cause

 

Twelve-plus hours a day

seven days a week

of organizing, pushing, leading.

No rest for us,

but we didn’t care.

The cause was greater.

 

Alienation from friends, families.

Missing birthdays, baby and wedding showers,

times just making memories

because our calling was more

than to just be passive activists.

  

“Why aren’t you doing more?

You can knock doors,

make phone calls,

attend rallies!

Why aren’t you doing enough?”

These thoughts streamed through our brains

when someone wished up luck,

said we have their support,

said they had our backs.

 

Feelings of failure.

“If I had only done this…

then we would have won,

we most surely would have

saved lives.”

The implications of our failures

were greater than others’

as we saved strangers’

livelihoods, health, access to compassionate care.

No time to

be human.

We went ‘home’

(even though where we laid our heads

was never actually home),

ingested drugs,

fell into chaotic sleeps.

 

We couldn’t be our true selves,

as our lives belonged to

the cause.

 

We faltered

landed harshly.

We wanted to scream,

“I am only just

a human!”

But to what? The cause?

 

We deserved rest,

but we didn’t realize it

until after

the burnout.

***