Rafters lit with strobe lights,
smoke lines,
broken paneled reflections of
31 years of bottled insights,
throttled insides.
Air laced with metallic smiles,
degeneracy,
sporadic flickers of someone else’s lighter.
I twirl absentmindedly.
Plume by Loscil.
I have no business here.

You watch me with
staggered silence,
smile wide and big and
sudden:
impact and
sides of me are split,
flowing.
Your laugh some
blunted  rifle.  

You watch me with 10 plus years of
a bawling inner child,
unmanageable reflexes
that end in stifled violence,
milky looks and a muted
predatory hunger.
I am wearing
my best calf impression:
doe-eyes and stealing all the glances,
blue tights, black heeled sandals that scuff the floor as I
daydream in public,
rub a soft elbow,
sip a virgin seltzer tonic with
cherries and some other light garnish
(stay as close to God as possible)
watch you with marrow armor and
calculated patience.
I’m a blue-black swirl of approachable silence.
Twirl somewhere nearby and deign to give you
open eyes for at least
twenty seconds at a time.
Laugh a swaying knife.

You asked for it.

 

“first dances”

 

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