Member Poem

A song: a little book unsheathed from the critical masses, a medium over-burdened with clandestine meanings and lyrical gymnastics, a time when you could be yourself when you listened, by the beachheads rolling through thoughts that never end… a place where nothing and everything can reach you, if the crescendo is right and the bass feels like it’s thumping through your chest, an action not unlike war but without the bloody reverberations of artillery—no, these are mental bombs that completely destroy your amygdala to next Saturday, when you hear something similar down the street, a lithe vibration which triggers your subconscious into gleeful overload, but it takes time to come up from those lofty depths, and someone is saying to you, “Do you remember when we went running through the neighborhood without any human cares at all?  We just were...”, on account of the fact that people are dancing all over the living room now and someone’s ass is bumping the air and sometimes against Aunt Susie... yes, no, oh my god!  it’s a song…