there are disguises
is that really a cop
or just a secret
security guy
sleuthing around
the early hours
of a big happening,
eyeing the chick
with long legs
and high boots,
is she in cahoots
with the shaved head
who shares his smoke,
we enter without
search, special passes
for the photog, it’s
a long day with a lens
so credit is given
and we are released
into the giant parkland
lined with towering trees
everywhere you can see
the work in progress:
stages with bands,
food guys and sword
swallowers, a woman who
walks the razor ladder
it doesn’t matter where
you turn, there is
a scene for the screen:
babies with painted faces
and men having races
to reach the beer line,
we begin with a schedule
in the middle of this
massive party, attending
those melodic acts who
must be attributed
to the crowds, after all
we are celebrating
the music, isn’t that
what the crush is about
At five PM, not a breath
of space between bare chests
and naked shoulders
snuggled into each other,
raving maniacs watching
the monitors (who can get
close enough otherwise):
I stand above the fray
watching my friend
make her way to the
pits of photography,
she disappears behind
the gate and I wait,
the party behind the
scenes is better theater
than the main whopper,
who knew a private
toilet would be such a
thrill, topping the bill
along with fresh water,
soft seats and some juice
for the press, I wonder
about my legs,
tucked underneath
wishing for the fresh
air of the sea, I admit the
rock scene is not for me,
I want to breathe
and smile,
wave at the folks,
be a human being
in the scheme of things,
for unlike here, lost
in the shuffle of humanity,
there is a place at
home where I am free!


©J.W.WINSLOW 9/1/11