Friday, February 19, 2016

DISCO

Blown back 
towards home pre-
mature and sniffling, by huge 
blue sheets 

of wind, starchy
and stiff with square 
blocks of city

silt, and just 
when I'm thinking—hell,

everything in front of me
seems dead 
or mostly

on its 
last legs, anyway;

there—across 
that last street, 
and fatally 

flagrant inside
the lurid 

swaying box of black
which can
barely contain it—suddenly flashes 

and bleats
the wild throbbing  

beat, of a huge 
orange open-
fist, beckoning—
hurry 
quick, hurry 
up, step
on it,
kid, look—the 
thing is, you're right: death

is coming. 
But

life is—
not 

waiting
for that.

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