what ever happened to the underground

where are the heirs

of the demimonde?

the emblematic hair,

chopped or cropped

or mohawk spiked,

when dreadlocks

belonged to rastafarians

instead of humboldt state

or berkeley posers.

when tattooed sleeves

were the inky terrain

of sideshow freaks

and jailbirds.

and the underground

spoke to itself

with xeroxed 'zines

about the sounds

and scenes,

and mark pauline

reanimated mummified dogs

with robotic limbs

and built infernal machines

that spit fire and bowling balls

and the abandoned breweries

were squats.

where art and music

happened to happen

and a lukewarm can of bud

could be had for a buck

in a basement club or loft.

and we went out

to dark corners and alleys

with a stack of posters,

a bucket of wheat paste

and a brush to claim

a vain resistance

to the encroaching wave

of homogenized life

and culture.

before the signs and signifiers

were semi-digested

and re-projected

as an infinite spew

of available lifestyle

selections.

and nothing was permitted

but much was tolerated

in the shadows

and the cracks.