In the harsh, unforgiving light
Of the stage, a woman like a photograph
Is unmoving. Her hair is pale,
A tired, burned and every way
Used and reused shade of blond.
"Well," a man shouts, "the music?"

She laughs, "There is nothing but music"
And signals for a change in the light
To the barkeep, a rugged blond,
The type worthy of a photograph,
And takes her battered guitar away
From it's place by the tip pail

That glints too sharply in the pale
Glow. From her fingers, the music
Now comes from and out in a way
That makes the patrons feel the light,
That begs to be photographed.
You can look at the too skinny blond

And her loved and beaten honey-blond
Guitar and see music as whole. Too-pale
Light, though, makes a photograph
Image become washed. It is why music
Is something not quite tangible, light,
Unable to be captured when made in a way

That is real, like the man in the subway
Tunnel with his violin, or the blond
Who sings under the broken lights
Of a cheap café full of drunk, pale
Faced men because, hey, her music
Gets heard. Who cares if her photograph

Isn't in every magazine? These photographs
Distort and mar and rob them of the way
They used to feel about their music,
Before they were ordered to dye hair blond
And dress this way and expose café-paled
skin to the false beauty of California sunlight.

- October 2001