As the beat breaks,
the floor trembles,
the records spin, and we
all dance
on the hardwood floor
covered in spilt beer
cocktail napkins,
at a house show in DC,
where I'll always remember
rushing on the stage
and waving my cellphone,
as though I brightened
the light in a beacon
tucked away in a lighthouse
on a grotesque rock formation,
in the corner of the James River.
I studied her movements:
tiny and minute,
enough to bring exposure
to the deejay scratching records
on a set of turntables,
cut from a maple tree.
The lights cut off,
like a road raged driver
who maneuvers frantically
around my vehicle,
this vessel containing my space,
personal and untouched,
a lonely cabin in a dense forest.
Now I'm considering whether
I should break the beer bottle over
the bar booth, or send her an emoji, a meme, or a gif,
to let her know my heart
possesses multitudes,
beyond the scope of your timeline. Found life in
the bottom of a Murakami Well
deeper and larger than the cavern
behind the hidden waterfall,
in a tourist attraction in Chattanooga.
This is for when I'm sorry; make me
forget
about drawings you’ve sketched
on the back of your pair of converses.
So do me a solid,
give me the first home video
of your newborn crawling around
the carpet, or the dance floor.
And then tell me why can't I be great too.