THE BIGGEST AND BADDEST POETS by MD WHEATLEY
October 6 2025
The Biggest and Baddest Poets were on tour in the middle of America. I was there in the middle of the mosh pit. You were in a different kind of pit. I wasn’t dancing, I was standing alone. Alone as in a circle of strangers. You were somewhere else. I was trying not to cry while the band played. The guitars took turns screaming at each other until the snare started a soft roll. The man in the middle of the stage faced the drummer. The man in the middle’s shirt spoke an empty platitude. The man in the middle whispersang as the two guitars gave birth to new stars with each note. The man in the middle was not the frontman because there was no frontman. Only men taking turns with guitars chugging, bass humming, drums drumming. The men took turns breathing and screaming. Stage left screamed at stage right, stage right screamed back. And so on and so on. I couldn’t understand their words but I knew it was something serious, something real, something worth screaming about. The music didn’t feel like a wave crashing over me because nothing feels like a wave crashing over you except a wave crashing over you. You were in a pit safe from waves. Your pit is not deep, but it’s deep enough.
Rebecca Warlick is a painter from California. She lives in NY.