The Varieties Of Religious Experience

no music will save you, fool,

they told me.  no rock, no hip-hop,
no country or chamber.  you ought to know
there’s no Savior Composer, no Blessed Singer
to reach down and pull the likes of you up. I did not listen

to them.  there was too much
to naysay that.  moments when a joystring
of Afropop tugged me to my feet,
or when a tossed off bluerock 
tore me out of a dark bed to dance.

not everything feels like salvation
but enough does to let me know
how little they knew of it.  my feet
are consistenly drawn free of the ground
by simply switching on the radio.  some crunk beat
roils me, a trumpet foils my despair,
a singer turns one note — one note! — 
perfectly to one side and I rise.

it is no Personal Savior, I admit.  many
are lifted this way.  I’ve watched them
all around me, eyes closed, hovering
in clubs, thrashing against the ceilings
of their cars, air drums crashing;
my brothers, my sisters.  all of us
in the midair of song.  if we open
our eyes long enough and see each other,
we smile — those who call us fools
will never understand.
those who called us fools
are far beneath us now.