Bonnie's Roxx, Atco, New Jersey,1990
O, our expressions grim, so serious!
And menacing, as if we're benching weights
Or gravely working at a car's engine.
We strive to seem mysterious
And sometimes truly entered altered states,
Burned up with rude bolts of adrenaline.
The drums command the stage like big black guns
Upon a fortress. Dwarfed by Marshall stacks,
We swing our greasy hair like myrmidons
Thrashing at rival columns. Ten hot suns
Assembled above make steam of sweat, axe
And archery, broadsword, emblem, and bronze
Armor. We swarm in smoke, crude ghosts, chthonic,
Striving, one solstice, to make ourselves mythic.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem