God steps on stage,
where the lights are never brighter, but never bright enough.
She stomps her stone boots to the beat
and flashes a grin, but only for a second.
Her smile is sharp, sleek, and ohí so fast like the diamond designs
that form sparkling silhouettes of lightning bolts
rounding the backs of her calves, also made of stone.
This goddess rises up from underground radio in the form of back page news,
bareback, brave, and bright in an otherwise black and white world,
riding atop her snapshot catamount as the great lynx roars,
a muso with long teeth dispelling any disbelief from the peanut gallery,
those in the nosebleeds with cheap binoculars
searching for mirrors amidst the natural smoke of things,
looking closely for wires and trapdoors.
This goddess has blood that runs better live,
hardcore acoustics for a better whenever,
songs that speak of hope, hidden in the unheard lyrics of death metal.
She smokes cigarettes and microphones, filterless and full of faith,
playing as the front man to a band Iím sure youíve never heard,
writing songs that arise from the stage itself,
songs that are hardly understood due to poor reception on both ends
and the lack of fundamental airplay on fundamental radios.
She is the Jill-of-all-trades for show, letting her jack boots do the singing
while she moves her faux leather lips to the song of her well tuned feet,
waving tattooed limbs that change colors in the spotlife,
hoping her arms will be bright enough, and her legs, loud enough,
to attract the passing attention of every fallen angel
so that they may join her in song and dance
and be happy once more, at least for a while.