As A Porcelain Wrecking Ball

How many angel-headed hipsters can dance on the head of state?
It depends on the poet.
Ginsburg had it easy, when rock and roll songs
Were still written for dancing
No one writes rock for dancers, these days
I don’t think anyone remembers how to dance.

On the road, with the windows rolled down,
The wind smokes my cigarette
Everything is emptiness and
Some part of my blood remembers what it was to rebel,
why it was necessary,
but why bother? All the kicks are marketed,
all the mountains have been climbed
and everything is accepted except
anti social tendencies and binge drinking if you’re not in college.

A mustang under streetlights, running on asphalt
Hauls a load of girls with impossibly long hair,
Every one naked and screaming into the night,
Windy tears streaking their makeup and the chill of the world
Crinkling their nipples into points that should pass for stars.
Each howl as they pass raises my bloodpressure another point,
Until I’m bouncing in my seat, yelling and laughing and shaking
My fist out the window, fooled by nudity into
Believing in the beauty of the world.

Sometimes, we remember to live without fear,
Sometimes, we remember that dancing is more than motion.
Mostly, these things sleep, sung off
By hate and acceptable angst. America is filled
With caricatures of ancient rebellion
And not very many rebels.
I think it takes more than beer and piercings,
Blue hair and pre-fab punk.
You can’t fight with directionless anger
And expect to get anywhere.