Under Low Ceilings


what is it about the local scene, raw and imperfect
not much more than a bunch of kids messing around
that strikes some wiser truer chord beneath, more complete in understanding?

under low and dirty ceilings on stages that aren't even stages
poorly and dimly lit by makeshift lights
there is an energy here in their faces, determined guitars and wild drummers

singing and playing their hearts out, straining for every word note emotion song
a small dull often uninterested audience mingles absently with itself
restless and waiting for the headliner or their friends or their soda or their ride or their life

i stand or sit (whichever seems appropriate) and listen
to hours of rehearsal synchronizing rhythms melodies, meticulously penned words
letting it pulse through me this amateur underappreciated art, my head sways to it

most will never see record deals the radio magazines deafening crowds or brighter lights than these
that's not why they're here (though all truly good great things posses humble beginnings)
and awake in shadows the truth of their music's secret power becomes visible

a tiny colored flower bursting through a crack in the concrete
insignificant perhaps a nobody in the larger world but its passion is real
and far higher springs its joy than the sagging ceiling

no it cannot be contained
my applause is sincere and well-deserved.

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