Anthem III

I no longer need my own punk band. I can fill a cold room in an old house with noise and violence for weeks on end. Movement and sawdust and punkrock and that is enough. My political statement, my pine manifesto. I am the first one in to unlock the gang-box, to break out the tools each cold and blessed morning. I can set eight jambs in this antique house, hang each door to its jamb, rework each transom window above. The smell of pine left hanging in a room, pungent enough to hurt your eyes. I can survive and not sell out, I am convinced of it. I am the last one out, the one to run the chains and locks each night. I am much stronger now.