The sax, savage, 
primordial, elemental--
its brass-throated
scream undulates--
riffing the darkness.

In the harsh glare
of house spots,
we hold our ground
as the backbeat pulses,
the bass line walks

They intertwine
keeping time
and momentum,
borrowing rhythem
from our hearts.

Ringed by the multitude,
I grip my axe
in sweating hands,
wringing burnished chords
that crunch the continuum.

Synthetic tones,
harmonize our dreams.
The keyboards are stacked
like stairs, like prayers.
Prose unfurls--desperate
for acceptance.

We are in pocket.
Now, if the audience
isn't too drunk
to appreciate 
exposed souls...