Actually, this wasn't written with one person in mind, but the character grew out of the dreamy feel of watching so many warriorlike music acts in the nineties, when I was at concerts nearly every day, and I was definitely lost in the scene. In many ways, shows were dangerous as hell back then but also, many were on fire. :) I still get this feel when I'm at a really intense show although, if I tried moshing now, I think I'd prefer to stay on the crowd surfing end, rather than in the pit, ha. I'm not as resilient, but I'm tough, and I know how to weave through a crowd and avoid security like no other, that's for sure. It's a practiced gift, ha. I may have seats in the nosebleed, but I'll end up in the Pit every time. Hope you have a great day. 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. MacConnell
