Issue 95 - Benjamin Goldberg

ON FINDING THE WORDS
TO EXPLAIN MOSH PITS
by Benjamin Goldberg

There are forests, say---pyro's-lighter-
orange, blood-moon, night-
dipped-in-cyanide colored forests---
snapping above heads that rampage
when a Jaycee Hall fogs
with metal and morning breath.
Let's define head as globe,
a world plated with bruises gone magnetic.
Before the creaking spruce stage,
a continent of bodies agrees
on the best way to trample itself.
Any pilgrim to the pit pit soon is landmass
stamped with the topography of islands
birthed from their own bruises.
Let's define religion as what nerves worship
at their most flayed, and say
some frequencies are impossible not to hear
as gods, that a pantheon belongs
within spitting distance of flesh,
throned with fingers and bronze strings.
Say chords conjure earth and quake
out of darkness to feed darkness.
Within walls---say within bones---
confinement ensures concussion
will perform its dizzying magic, will arc a metal
through ears that rusts into faith
by the time it segues toward the brain.
Say man is something made of the urgency
of its breath. Say god is man gasping
itself through amplifiers into anthem.
Say prayer is the breath this takes.