He would dance sometimes
high out of his fucking mind
and it would be like something
in the background of Mass Effect
or some character in the movie Strange Days.
He was free only then.
Other times it got sloppy like Kurt and Goldie in
Overboard, more booze than uppers and maybe
a few too many nights in a goddamn (“I say God-damn”) row,
and he looked more like Elaine dancing on pain meds on
Seasonally, a haggard rendition of Chevy Chases
Fred Astair and Danny “fucking” Kay rant
while twitching like something in the background of
Scrooged during the X-Mas party scene
where Bill Murray could’ve totally gone home
with the cute secretary and has to watch it
all in the Ghost-bleachers with that crazy cabbie fuck.
Maybe a rowdy alien at the Cantina, busting a Jedi-Funkified remix.
He would dance sometimes like the white kid
In The Power of One, but that was strictly for the purest high.
He would dance around a glass table and finish al the lines
like a champ. Like Rocky meets Hurly Burly,
On K he was MJ in Moon.
On whites he was schitza-a-shiva on a tilt a whirl,
an arcane hunter of shadows.
Bob Marley on 9 hits.
Enough of everything, and the mother fucker floated like
Powder, or that patented Spike Lee head/shoulder angle,
ghetto blaster over the other.
A big, bad motherfucker like Uma and Travolta in Fiction.
Like Carleton on Fresh Prince.
But no matter how blasted, how gone how other worldly,
how Sheen-i-fied or Scottied
he might have gotten he never,
ever pulled a Risky Business.
Dance magic Bowie? Enough shrooms and sure.
The classic Julia Stiles gets taught to dance “black”?
Enough pheromones and Beer from a brown paper bag,
and anything is possible.
Finally done, he’d head home.
Find something to watch.