To Bathe In The Fountain You Must Take Off Your Clothes

Stage Life. So much less than it seems to be.

Spoken for and available, vulnerable to cant, raked amid rivers of
instrument cables, even the floor is aslant; we're caterers, the band
and I, we serve the courses from El Condor to Marvin Gaye, the
sound men, the haulers, each in our way, pray for the moments of truth.
We set up the lighting truss, go through the soundcheck, look for the
ensemble to fuse. Listening is everything. Give it all up to the gods
and then get out of town. But first stick around awhile after the show:

They're loading the speakers into the truck.... miles to go.... I
turn to the faces I sing for... I hear it... in the deep heart's core,
there at the stage door... I see it... their glittering eyes are gay,
fountain spray! Each in her way went awandering while we played.
I personally prayed to the "verb" all night, to the re'verb, the echo,
the wetness of sound...

I know my call. It's all around me as I sign my name. I feel
the heart jump - all eyes dewy, within a band of fans I stand in
make-up, naked at the pump.