Empty fields to swelling crowds
blue skies to encroaching clouds
delicate sitar strings
to feedback so loud
the eardrum rings and reverberates
into the next repetitious beat.
Somehow it is tribal.
Something to rival
the isolation of the day to day,
when habits shake away in our flimsy boxes.
Finally able to shed its skin,
to levitate from within,
audience to exploration.
This profound surrender
to spontaneous movements,
surfing into the sound,
a swirl of the imagination
lifts us from the ground.
It completes the journey
from tension to release,
to collective expression.
We converge from all corners of the earth.
England, Iceland, Japan,
Dancer, spectator, musician.
A photographer captures our composition,
our cathartic expressions.
Along the periphery,
see her and then she is gone,
leaving only the mystery of a fleeting purpose.
A wish to ask her, if only to liberate curiosity,
if she’s no longer the same as when she came in.
Moth to butterfly, like a shifting sky
bleeding dark to call out the moon,
glowing yellow from the trees of its elevation,
reflecting in the river amphitheater.
Suddenly the night is like leather
and dark packs prowl through the weather.
You can hear their bikes and classic cars
racing towards some dead man’s curve,
they throttle into oblivion.
Mirror images become distorted
with kaleidoscopic color tableaus,
of time travel and transformation,
suddenly it is the 1960’s,
a helicopter hovers
and Vietnam imagery
uncovers the killing fields
from out of the smoke
of sonic explosions.
Music awash with reverb,
dripping with jewels,
like the moon now merging
with the creek top,
upon an inkblot ceiling,
absorbed into the next set,
so strange and inflamed,
the fire burns through time and space,
blurring the lines
between here and the next stage.
Improvised euphoria and elation,
transformation rather than
the simple weathering of elements
in the weariness of limbs,
on the end of a discordant melody.
Veils of smoke and time
falling away from the fingers
of these revered figures.
Musicians who play through
three days of psychedelic haze.
The drone of their instruments,
like planes overhead,
lights collapsing on the fields unfolding,
a disorienting canvass of interloping,
all manner of merging
on an indigo meadow
of blurred reference points.
It is a skewed Coachella,
like her wierd brother,
with a great record collection,
far flung and growing like a thorn
out of the hill country of central Texas.
Rain and stage light
wets the technicolor appetite.
Everything designed to alter and transform
before our dilated eyes,
swell to worship
those alters of music,
those altered perceptions
of the majestic moment
reflected in each,
a glimpse of awe.