I.

White straitlaced boys with under–arm portfolios
aspire to high rises and dream of owning penthouses;
they have political manners and perfunctory voices
finicky hair and wear Italian clothes; drink power
processed in a blender and are waiting for
an express elevator to paradise.

Misguided angels indentured to higher institutions
where ambition is a common metaphor for revenge
dismiss God as a myth—a primitive response to fear;
have immaculate fingers used to brushing off lint
as easily as answers; drink energy off other men's
sweat.
They, who have never known life this side of heaven

while men who would be poets
pay a terrible price for a beautiful verse
with lives spent in silent frenzy
and know how to dance,
dance best with strangers.

II.

In west hollywood—along santa monica blvd
young boys with cherubic faces shed their wings
at quarter 'til midnight; saunter in too casually
as if they owned the dance floor and pray like hell
they'll never be turned down while the music feels
like an electric eel, writhing and twisting into a rage.

Lined up against the bar, they swallow every insinuation
with alcohol waiting for intoxication's sweet surrender
and learn to tangle with strangers whose hips are on fire

pretty boys with wisps of wet blond hair that curl into secrets
could make old men cry; desire's agony etched in liquid blue
iris
along the silky curve of cheekbone, lips bruised by beautiful teeth
aching to bite indifference in two, but too numb to care

they just want to dance
strut and gyrate in the arms of far less pretty men, soft
shapeless men, lonely widowers, men with tired eyes
looking for a place to sleep with nothing to apologize.

On the dance floor where the lights are burning
a new meaning into the definition of worship
where ecstasy and pain share the same space

tattooed men in leather whose dance is a brutal exercise
who make other men scream and beg for more
could kick cruelty in the face until it crawled; who stalk a
sinuous game
of tensile men, who gladly abandon themselves to the
pleasure
flayed, glutted, glistening proudly on the butcher's block

while construction workers who don't own shirts
wearing cutoffs like loincloths, could pound their rhythm into concrete,
learn to dance ballet in search of Tchaikovsky; love their men
into the early dawn and leave them at night searching for Tchaikovsky
down a dark alley on a dead–end street named Ponce de Leon;
drones swarming to the altar in search of honey, who disappear
into a porcelain labyrinth of steam and fantasies, and never return.

Last dance before sunrise and negotiated breakfasts
desperate alliances and hasty phone numbers, the music
echoes auld lang syne with a sickly pallor clinging
to the ones who wipe their eyes with discarded cocktail napkins;
queens wearing mascara as thick as gossip and leftover dreams
hovering around like geisha moths toward the safety of mirrors
who dance stiffly as nervous brides trying too hard to remain beautiful;

and, tucked away in corners seeking quiet refuge, the empty men
whose shadows linger at the door
who hesitate to dance in case they might remember
who hesitate to leave and might forget;

old men languishing in private sorrow gathering subdued light
where neon grows diffused on soft lips and thoughtful smiles,
memories of fond lovers who left them quietly...or perished
without a word.

III.

All the angels who fell from the grace of men
live on this side of heaven and cannot escape
the persistence of perspiration and blood
reeking of conflict and desire.

But the acrid smoke that curls up
and winds itself around silver streamers of light
would lead them back up the stairs
towards that newly-remodeled heaven
where more rooms have been added on

for men who thought they could touch the stars
reaching for their diamond–points of light
and pulled up madness by the roots instead

men, who would be poets
who lived and danced and cried
when the music was over.

2001 Mia
(All Rights Reserved)
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