The Intoxication of Crowds
Oct 7 2008


You start to live for the applause,
a junkie for standing ovations —
wired, buzzed, hopped-up,
every night, the craving
one hit after another.

All you see is the first two rows
when the lights come up;
so you feel as much in the dark as they are,
hiding-out
behind this jangling mannequin
who pretends he’s you.
You need them,
and find them contemptible.
The predictable laughs, the easy tears,
playing another eager audience
like a virtuoso
his instrument.

It’s when the lights go down
you relapse.
It’s the days in cramped motel rooms
light leaking-in.
Where the curtains never pull tight,
and day-time TV
is your only companion.
It’s the sudden crash,
after you’ve binged on their adulation.
And the love you wish you had
they cannot give.

Introverts love a crowd like this.
Pretending to be another
when the curtain’s up,
and the giddy fearless freedom
of feeling untouchable.
Or at least until you’re discovered
— an impostor
in his rented suit.

Now, it’s the sweats and the shakes and the craving
for that main-lined love.
How you feel when the lights go up
— the sudden flush
the manic high
the blissful fix that fills you.
Like that incredible night you owned them;
that night you killed.