Ode in Prose to the Chanukah Punks
O flaming DIY denim-patch-sewn hearts, O holiday studded with eight candlelit nights, O gelted Tradition of Tradition, O cultural Tradition of questioning, O— is Tradition where I got my Punk from? Punk is Hand-Me-Down, after all. Oh! So… from my parents and their parents and so-on? Duh. But that’s counter-intuitive / counter-culture — with us mid-aughts teen-aged rebels bopping heads to screaming pop punk streaming from radios and the tides of mainstreams rising; but it wasn't my parents we rebelled against, we headbanged against the whole world. No, not against the world, but with the world and against the way… was any of this more performance than purpose? Thing is, those aren’t mutually exclusive. Nightly lightning candles for Chanukah is a performance with a purpose. Watching, teaching, singing, laughing, dancing— all part of the performance. Each with purpose. For all y’all Chanukah Punks. O you. You who take pride in performance powered by purpose. No shame, instead sharing space. No embarrassment, only embracement. You who would perform even the dawn of light alone. Echoing the hollow of that one tree falling in the forest, like Baruch Ata— O god, O Chanukah, O Punk Chanukah, come bright the world and let’s party hard so we can spoil ya… with what? With treats and stories and little gifts— making the rebelable world spin. The little gifts, the everyday, O punks trying every way, you who put in the hardwork / heartwork: O the mom, not only mother earth but also mother everything, who, by blood, passed down my Punk, O the father, who old-growth stewarded gardens, dad punk celebrating together on the side appreciating the glow of candlelight, O the brother who sees the world differently, animatedly passionate dreidelnaut imagineer, O the sister rebel raver music-maker, bodying incandescence in her jollying movements, O the lover giving the same support the father had, gaining the same appreciation of dance and candlelight, O the people, the Maccabees, the actual bees, the Jews, those echoing screams against the machine of everyone oppressed fighting for liberation, O the creatures, the crittering and the cuddling, the comfort, you who have no idea what the hell is happening, this is wild but why are we lighting flames nightly and can I join all this dancing? O dancing world, hand-lit, stalk-by-stalk, melting, sparking, alight, alive, all-at-once. O the world in lack and still giving, O the world of light against the dark, O the ongoing against the grain, O to you sharing your light from within.
— Adam Powers