Dance (of the martyr)
Right there,
those four square feet of space,
of vinyl or tile or cement-marble perhaps
Disco lights touched your beer cold skin,
turned it pink and yellow
and blue-red and sometimes, green
You are a rainbow saint
and I, a rainbow junkie,
the finest of your patrons,
shroud in purple.
Right there,
you stood, dream manifest to me
I stared with starry eyes,
stunned at the impossible,
net-captured by the possible
I froze and danced the bottle’s dance.
You moved and shone
like the dancing sun
of an alcohol-fed congregation,
oblivious of your divinity,
-right there.
I offer their cigarettes to you
to cover the stronger scent of maples
or the faint memories of the third reich
in your nostrils
Far from incense,
but close to human sacrifice
They are ignorant of your miracles,
your body out of sight
to their blind headlights
They breathe for you now.
Right here,
your most beloved patron dances
the slowest dance he’s ever done
Music, funneling
through telephone wires, fiber optics,
receivers, antennae, and what-not
along cities, continents, and oceans.
Right there, I dance with you
Right here, you dance with me
a dance to last for years
unknown, unnumbered, undocumented-
through computer screens.
