Flight 11
So, what is a generation?
Is it thousands at Woodstock
sharing a collective psyche?
Or just an eclectic coincidence
of hijacked passengers
on the manifest of Flight 11?
Flower Children? Baby Boomers?
Hippies, Yippies, Yuppies.
Believing we possessed a new vision,
we shared a zeitgeist for a
potential Age of Aquarius.
“Your sons and your daughters
are beyond your command,
For the times they are a-changin’.”
But our parents imposed on us
a war against the Vietnamese,
who merely sought freedom.
“Come on all you big strong men
Uncle Sam needs your help again.”
Their war became our war;
some of us rebelled, others
disappeared into denial.
"Twenty years of schooling
And they put you on the day shift"
Searching for an analgesic,
we discovered consumption –
an addictive palliative.
We became our anti-selves,
trading VWs for SUVs,
tie-dye for Hermès ties.
"Doesn't have a point of view
Knows not where he's going to
Isn't he a bit like you and me?"
We first rebelled against our parents,
then re-rebelled against ourselves –
trading sides as traitors.
We became enthralled by technology
and the stock market, until the
dot.com crash returned us to the void.
"With every mistake we must surely be learning
Still my guitar gently weeps."
A more-tortured mind relieved our own
and sent the deranged into planes,
a visual profanity, still surreal.
We responded with mock passion,
and sent precision bombs
from our evening couches.
Zealots hijacked our planes
but our failure to find fundamentals,
already had hijacked our generation.
Sons and Daughters:
we had a dream, but left you little,
not even an excuse.
“I have squandered my resistance
For a pocketful of mumbles such are promises.”
Any answer is now too late;
we look into the cavernous holes
where towers should stand.
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