I was told there would be flying cars
and close encounters and cocoons;
flocks of seagulls would rule the hairwaves
as do chameleons our karma; 
Lisa Frank trapper-keepers would host
all my pastel-tiger fever dreams;
and the Goonies always save Astoria.
I am sorry to report that History
has called shenanigans and bullshit.
Coke didn’t bring sweet harmony
or help us build a better world—hell, 
even coke’s passé compared to drugs
today. The stories I adored are dead.
Red Dawn lied—we invaded ourselves,
and where’s the Wolverines? Searching
for Hugh Jackman on their cellphone screens. 
Only 1984 got it right, not the year, the book,
but I’m still hooked on these faded dreams,
and I still want my fucking hover board.