Symphonic Poem

Stop Making Sense

Hi, I have a tape I wanna play you

I’m scrunched up on the floor with David Byrne

20 inches in front of me and 41 years behind me. 

I eagerly eye my best friend next to me. 

He’s not even really a Talking Heads fan

but this specific concert ought to change his life. 

Track by track, member by member, 

the vast empty stage floods with honest-to-God jubilation. 

My hands and feet can’t help themselves, and I drag 

Ben to our new dorm dance floor. We move like water, 

vibrate on our own level of existence, 

and turn like a wheel inside a wheel. 

Hand in hand, all hips and truth and groove, 

we are translated to that magic place. 

That coked-out, energized, face-melter 

of a communal gathering, where all embarrassment 

is washed clean under the waves of expression and comradery. 

I am Tina Weymouth’s knees and Chris Franz’s sweat;

Steve Scales’ bongos and David Byrne’s wiggling, 

waggling, whirlpool arms.

It’s the same as it ever was, and even better.