I aint got no crystal ball

The 90’s have been a lot on my mind lately. What a romantic period—a period of individualistic, self-consuming, imaginative poets and prophets. A revolution of generation Xers too depressed to walk outside their doors and pick up the paper and scan the news headlines about people whose lives veered even more tragic. These middle children of history had only the voices in their heads to keep them company. They were the bringers of rain—the lithium dazed but emotive storytellers and songwriters of our time. And their songs sliced our hearts with splintering lyrics and choking throats. They were destined to die young and alone, like predecessors Poe, Shelley and Keats. And like Blake they refused to become enslaved by societal standards (instead enslaving themselves). Years from now, when our grandchildren ask about the music of the “old days,” we will (in proper cliché) wonder what they must be learning in school if not the classics. Perhaps the teachers have forgotten our romantic heritage, abandoning their dusty albums next to dusty books of poetry.

Not me.

I still remember the metaphors. The vampire worlds, the bulls on parade, the cancer turning black. I recall the smell of teen spirit and the effects of glycerine. I’ve seen champagne supernovas and people drawing blood under the bridge. I’ve walked through a forest of fake plastic trees.