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A Poem in the Before Choice Disturbs collection

Raving In Orlando II

My shirt is off now that I'm in front
I thought I'd tied it around my waist,
but it doesn't matter, hands are on me
and warm enough.
Gone-- in the trill of fugues, music and mind.
The mind of music saying things,
wonder things-- taking a big daught
on the stage, on the cusp, The Edge.

Musical edge, stage edge,
the fingernail edges of hands
drawing snakes of blood across my skin.

Lifted up, above the catwalk overhead,
and higher still. Up.
The houselights come up,
The music doesn't grind
to a halt, but just stops,
everyone hanging. Hands retreat,
body drained and lifeless.
Shirt, obedient dog, lying in a
heap at my feet on the stage.

The sharp edge of car keys sting my thigh,
reminding me to make my way
with the other gods to the door,
facing 8AM sunlight, and making
feeble attempts to
remember where we parked.

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