the dj beckons them to the club
holla’–it’s time to spin, bust your move
to the lawn, to the chamber, arms in the air
everyone: “forty-five! forty-five!”
remix…errrr, skidding a new track
deeper into the moment
feeling the bass
under lyrics of a lie
the dj is a master puppeteer
narci-sizing new moves on the dance floor
moshpit sashays towards the privileged, the popular
insurecting the dancers, a storm of Qed
follows the dj in a shameful
dystopian democracy disco
I can still hear the slow jam jingle of the ice cream truck gliding along past our yellow house like it was riding on rails
Pick a star, any star & I’ll reach straight up and grab it for you put it right inside your hot little hand we had
for Alex — a golden shovel, after Andrea Gibson The sky is still keening and so am I. What is too many tears? I let
It will probably happen when I’m at work, and he recruits a nosy, but caring friend with an AI-powered search engine. They’ll hush behind a
Your gaze becomes a stare, forcing your views without saying a word. Your eyes tell me a story. One where I fall to the wayside.
