Nineties, Short Vine
I have a fascination, and a deep heart-tug that lingers, when it comes to the nineties, which is probably why I still dress like it's that time period, ha. Also still love the music of the era. During that time, I followed Pearl Jam, and I saw a number of their shows -- Louisville, Cincinnati, Seattle, Charleston, to name a few. Louisville was my favorite show. I rarely had a ticket; I just always got in for some reason. I also saw every other music act you can imagine. Red Hot Chili Peppers, Ani Difranco, Tool, Pantera, Phil Collins, Elton John, Ice Cube, Seal, Def Leppard, Tori Amos, Fiona Apple, and Nine Inch Nails are a few that stand out, right off the top of my noggin. There were so many. I haven't seen a show in a while. In recent years, the last shows I saw that were great were The Black Keys, Ray Lamontagne, Fiona Apple, and Heartless Bastards. <3 The Black Keys. Hope you like the poem. Kinda gritty. C.A.
Nineties
Deep, low, and rumbling, through thick lips,
your voice poured out like the lonely cave
echo. After rolling, star years on the rising
road, some days your sound slid into a sleepy
whisper, a gravelly grumble, a drowsy drawl.
Bad nights melted into sick mornings, but you
were alive, young, and the songs were clear.
Each show, you fought the mean crowd's
undertow, and how the wild, slippery fingers
grabbed at your long, dark hair, tearing out
pieces. Skin and nails were lost and found,
becoming souvenirs, and after a while,
when you were beaten by the relentless war
of touch, you didn't feel it; you were all
so skinny and numb. All around, wide-eyed
officers brushed knuckles against cuffs,
slapping palms against sticks, caressing
tasers and guns. When all crowd mouths
opened, when all heads tilted, when all eyes
looked up, watching you climb into the rafters,
creating a massive yawn, a gaping world,
the unexpected tour of all tours, everyone,
even the largest men, reached for you.
C.A. MacConnellyour voice poured out like the lonely cave
echo. After rolling, star years on the rising
road, some days your sound slid into a sleepy
whisper, a gravelly grumble, a drowsy drawl.
Bad nights melted into sick mornings, but you
were alive, young, and the songs were clear.
Each show, you fought the mean crowd's
undertow, and how the wild, slippery fingers
grabbed at your long, dark hair, tearing out
pieces. Skin and nails were lost and found,
becoming souvenirs, and after a while,
when you were beaten by the relentless war
of touch, you didn't feel it; you were all
so skinny and numb. All around, wide-eyed
officers brushed knuckles against cuffs,
slapping palms against sticks, caressing
tasers and guns. When all crowd mouths
opened, when all heads tilted, when all eyes
looked up, watching you climb into the rafters,
creating a massive yawn, a gaping world,
the unexpected tour of all tours, everyone,
even the largest men, reached for you.
