*After excruciating days working the Sunglass Hut at the Westfield Mall, I spent my nights at a bar called The Hook-Up in Pomona. We’d order pink squirrels and spend most of the night dancing to one of the most diverse jukeboxes I’ve ever come across. The nights were slow, but we preferred it that way. It was a group of 3 maybe 4 people, but never more than that. They needed to fit in the car legally. We’d basically be DJ’s the whole night since no one seemed to mind our taste in music. “Satan Said Dance,” by Clap Your Hands Say Yeah was a standard. We’d play that at least 3-4 times. Each time it’d come on, I was swirled into its carousel of fun. Knowing I had to go back to work and leave the dancefloor. But also knowing I’d be back…
I was tired of being young, of
supple skin
and bloodied nail beds—
I wanted big breasts and a hard cock between them,
something that would make me stop mourning
something that would require attention and stillness
Home was my bed, it was
where I slept and dreamt,
where I’d grope myself
to sleep
no use in crying
when the world is so dehydrated,
save your tears
wait for the great flood
So many limbs gathered at my bend,
I was engaged, swooned and divorced on a dancefloor—
I dug my own grave,
tired of time passing by—
until the weekend…
