0 Punk Rock Poem

Dear Jasmine,
Punk rock just ain’t the same.
Neither is feeling of sporting cherry red Doc. Martin Mary Jane’s.
You were my star. The ultimate grunge girl, had the ultimate pad.
An older version of the girl I was pretending to be.
I often longed to know what it was like glide arm and arm down the streets of tower with your cardigan clad boyfriend.
Did you make love a top of his drum set?
Did you nip food crumbs from his voluptuous beard. I bet you were cool enough to call him by his real name.

Tell me, Jasmine was that not good enough?
Did you feel like Courtney Love every time you injected that needle into those hardcore veins?
Did you forget about the friendships forged?
Your father’s love?
Or the little girls like me longing to be part of your world, but willing to just give you rides in order to sneak a peek?

Those sauntering lips still put forth a pout the last high you had.
The infection cemented in your veins like a 5’oclock traffic jam.
But I know your Betty Paige bangs were still held sternly in place as you fell to Burt’s stale living room floor.
Your pink sequined ballerina slippers waiting for you at the seat you convulsed out of were a size too small-they didn’t fit.

The night of your funeral your father showed up .
Nudged a gun up to Burt and Jay’s faces.
Scared them so much they simultaneously dropped their ceremonial cans of Steel Reserve 211.
He blamed them for your departure, emptied his eyes out onto their Chuck Taylor’s and left.


A lot has changed during the decade you’ve been gone.
Shitty bands like Hootie and the Blowfish have been replaced by longhaired hillbilly bands who call themselves Nikleback.
MTV refuses to showcase music videos now and a black man finally gets to handle America’s business.
Jasmine, can you believe it?

I’m 30 years old now.
Since my 22nd birthday I’ve been older than you. I am married with two kids and still not even close to being hardcore.
I never had the pleasure of front lining in a band.
My husband is not adorned with any ink, in fact he listens to music performed by old black men.
I can’t listen to Babes In Toyland or Bikini Kill in my car.
The vulgarity of it all
It’s not my life anymore.
How the things I desired in you for me were fleeting.
As I drive my children to soccer practice, share a laugh or a kiss
I can’t help but think of all the uncoolness you have missed.

--Nicole T., 32