Last performance review cycle, I got a "barely meets expectations"—something I could've avoided if I slept with my VP, but I liked to believe I had an unshakeable moral ground. I wouldn't be too sad ... [+]
I tucked my hair, long
and blond like Kurt's,
behind my ears.
Red flannel hung low,
loose and sloppy,
like my guitar.
My jeans, all
beat to shit,
inked with black
Sharpie "fuck you's,"
frayed and stomped
by Chuck Taylor.
I'd pluck my novice
power chords and scream
pretty, toneless songs
of teenage angst
into microphones
inside grange halls.
And then Kurt died.
Alone and prone,
below a shot gun,
defiant fist clenched
next to jeans,
all beat to shit,
all frayed and stomped.
I saw him:
a martyr,
a hero,
a role model
pathetic god.
But really,
he was a scared little boy
cowering behind long
blond hair,
red flannel
and power chords.