dreaming of drinking
in noisy locations
with people surrounding me
a thousand new faces a day
strangers grounding me
bodies covered in sweat
as we move to a beat
being pounded out
at volumes our
voices can’t compete with
a favorite past-time of mine
this tribal activity
this dancing.

seeing but not seeing
faces uncertain in
shifting shadows
and strobe flashes
only one thing dominating
the act of mating movement to music
rhythm to writhing
soul to sweat
i can’t forget it yet
the yearning
for the feel of muscles burning
from hours of endless
frenzied whirling.

with the breath
of a crowd
bringing death
to the dance
is there even
the slightest chance
we will ever again see
the sticky drink covered
dance floors
and the cover-charged
roped off doors
of my youth open to
the sweat covered lovers of
of hip hop and house?

will our children know the
dubious thrill of raising the roof
with their hands on their drinks
at all times and their ID’s
in their bras because they
still don’t make club
clothes for women
with pockets?
Or will the idea of sweating
so close to so many strangers
always feel like too much danger
and sharing that much air
alway carry the risk
of too much death
from the chance
of sharing too much breath
with too many people
you just don’t know?

which way will it go?

the club life
had pitfalls of
roofies and date rapes
unwanted gropings
along with DUI’s and
those sad over-dosings.
It wasn’t a scene
for those without armor
or someone to teach them
to watch out for charmers
or to stomp someone’s arches
“by accident” if needed.
it wasn’t a place for a lamb.
but it taught you to lose inhibition
to let go of the need for perfection
to give in to the feel of the music
and just be part of something wild and primal
and yes, at times, explicit.

It would be a shame if we were the last to know it.

—- mmorehead 02-20-2021