Clean: An Anthology

Hair Dye and Twin Towers

the year was 1977.
he was a cheeky infant,
the friction of the puzzle pieces
sanding off his jagged edges
a perfect boy, a perfect template
for americana to take hold
and map out his small-town path

the year was 1986
he wanted to dye his hair green,
and a spiky mohawk as well.
his mother shook her head,
and said, maybe, when he was older.
but that for now,
he needed to just go play outside.

the year was 1992.
he was in high school now,
and he had gotten his wish, slightly-
he had green tips in his brown hair.
but as he scribbled in his notebook,
he couldn't help but wonder:
were uniform suburbs like this his future?

the year was 2001.
and he looked outside his window
as his glory days, his ten years of grungy hope
and lime green flannel were decimated.
and he decided, then and there,
to provide another direction for twisted emotions,
because nobody should ever have to resort to airplanes.

the year was 2006.
he was everything and nothing all at once,
a rocket onto the music scene
and a voice for outsiders in the only way he knew how.
his hair color changed, he had a band of brothers with him
but as he stared out the tour bus window,
he promised himself he'd never forget what brought him here.