poem #126

I’m running down Glenwood Ave.
and listening to RadioLab–
an episode about Cuban teenagers
rebelling
against their goverment in the 80s,
the turning point
when Papo la Bala,
the Bullet,
injected himself with HIV
because, as he said,
when all doors are closed,
death is a door.
1, 2, 18, hundreds of kids
self-injected HIV
to go to the sanitarium,
freedom,
to play Metallica,
Nirvana,
to from punk rock bands.
Death is a door
when all doors are closed.
Los Frikis,
the Freakies,
the punk rock/metal/goth kids,
are nearly all dead now.
Only two
are still living,
and I’ve never heard of any of their bands,
who has heard of any of these bands,
and I’m running down Glenwood Ave.
listening to RadioLab
over the clatter of traffic
and crying for all the sounds
lost
in the ether.
______________________________________________________________________________
This poem, like sooooo many others, needs quite a bit of revision. But it’s a pretty good start. Also, the episode of RadioLab is called “Los Frikis.” Check it out.

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