The empty plastic cup in my hand pulses
Picking up a harmonic of the approaching steel strum
Amps rumble the foundations of the theatre
Sweeping dust from the floorboards beneath my feet
The singer throws back his balding curls
Sweaty beard swipes at the void
His arm pumping across the strings like a piston
His voice a full steam whistle
Primeval spirits call for an encore
He completes his sacrament and makes way for the headliner
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Portals”)
Life Immense 