by Robin Schweitzer
This can’t be music, it’s too raw
heads of peroxide, heads of midnight
bobbing in unison to melodies obscured.
This congregation of lost idiots
trees without roots swaying aimlessly
this is Home.
Musicians are more than that, they are superstars.
We pray to them.
They harmonize agony
with a flick
of a pick
on a guitar string.
This is no song and dance.
This is a celebration, a glorification
Or so we want you to think.
Rather, this is
that we are not alone
where admission turns to song.
This music, we need it.
It ends the freeze and brings the thaw.