I Guess It's
All in My Reaction
by Hezekiah Allen
this is a rather strange little place
for a revival: a mesquite bar
on the corner of any strip
it's fogged in, gray with Camel Straights
perspiring from the heat of a humid July
the vinyl seats stick to tender skin:
the inner thigh, the under curve of the knee,
the bend of the wrist.
and he--he exists only on the dance floor,
only flailing, broken sandals piled left on right
atop a corner chair.
and he is alone and he is possessed
and he is hungry, for spirit and high sound.
bare feet shuffle (quick, slow, quick, quick)
in drunken tango, sliding bits of rum across the tiles
as they spill over the lip of his glass,
leaving the ice in a careening dive.
and he has no words for identity.
he is only long oily hair glued to the forehead,
sweat stains on an old t-shirt of Derrick and the Dominoes
he is only the homage, the slow sex of dance,
and he moves only for the people.
but the people are snide, sarcastic cracks in his facade.
Francine's Version -- Hezekiah's Version -- Inspiration
they lack the balls and alcohol of his life.
so he beckons to them,
flirts with them,
tries a seduction, giggling low,
rounding out high.
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