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

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