A
Poem in the
Before Choice Disturbs collection
Raving In Orlando I
I
dance.
Dancing-- doing the
piercing
step of time to time in the
metronomic
click-
click-clicking of the
steel rod and
heel.
Steel heel;
Heal.
Steal
these
moments out on the
dance floor
full of
Ecstacy, everyone's a
lover,
dropping down and rising up:
syncopation as an act of
empathy;
sympathetic motion, an act of
love
"Don't make me love you." The song goes.
"I don't wanna..."
"I don't wanna..."
"I don't wanna..." She says.
"...love you, just fuck you."
The rhythm steps up a notch.
Light overhead that blinds and blanks and blinds again.
They're caught in the rhythm, too.
The crowd plays a game of 'now I see you'
--blind-- 'now I don't' --blank--
and there they are.
Pushing their way to the front of the crowd,
hands and arms are like toy store kids,
out of control; grabbing
the air --smokey air--
the anti-air when the lights are up--
is all around, and that's what the hands want.
Not catching it fast enough.
As fast as
the music
comes.