the punks
accepted the poor poet
as one of their own
perhaps they understand
they have been
listening to poetry
off scratched vinyl
and in the dirty clubs
their entire lives

the contrast between
selling books
at a convention
where pity was the
usual expression
to being taken seriously
by the colorful mohawks
and tattooed ladies
was the same as
dorothy waking up
and opening the door
to a world of color
from the black and white
excess of this land
where preconceived notions
are a way of life

the unseen dwellers
unaffected by trends
with safety pin piercings
marching to their
melodic heartbeats
unafraid to be themselves
in the harsh light
forging their way
with anarchistic flair
looking for a good time
to numb the doldrums
of carbon copy society
able to find common threads
with the divergent souls
searching for happiness
forging their own
yellow brick roads through
the alleyways we occupy