I believe in disco

I believe in disco, I do

now

 

I have heard the very best 

here at Starbucks tonight

#1 singles from the 70's, 

strung one behind the other

 

"Freak Out"

"Boogie Wonderland"

“Funky Town”

and this one whose words 

I could never make out

"I love the night life

I love to boogie

on the disco roooouuunnnd, 

balayang!"

 

dumb stuff

starfloss of morons, you say

and didn't Chic almost make it

into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame?

travesty!

 

but I do believe in disco

I do now

 

they used to dance, you see

beneath a shattered star

in another time

in another world

light, like a thousand fireflies in formation

circling, dazzling, dizzying them

 

and how we might long for that mindlessness

that sexual abandon

high on mixed drinks and cocaine

they ushered in the 80's

the stupid 80's, all Reagan and spandex and big hair

what could we know of their sweat,

its odor wafting through too much perfume, cologne?

 

but I know

I have smelled it

and I believe

I do now

I believe in disco

this is how it works (true story)

 

I stand stopped on the bridge

from Old River to where I live

bothered by the diatribe in my head

an argument, political

leveled at a statement

made by a dear, dear friend

a year ago

 

I have gone too far

frustration pitch

for a woman I have never argued with

in person

never had reason to

don't have now

 

I stare through the metal bridge fence

at the river, the trees below

at nothing

at my own horror

at myself

 

turn toward the street

 

meet the laughing gaze of a girl, waving madly

out the back window of an SUV

her smile, breaking her face with light

she is waving at me

 

this is how it works

 

I smile, feel the weight of my frown

everpresent these days

lift, a droplet of grace

worn through my rhino’s hide

to moisten

a long-parched heart

Impossible

"It is impossible!"

the waiter tells Natalie Goldberg

...dessert -- after the kitchen has closed?

No way, her mortified, Japanese friend thinks

slinks after Natalie and the waiter into the kitchen

to see the playful imp, writing teacher of writing teachers

confront the chef -- Yes? for us? dessert?

        and it is impossible, this life, love

        sanity, sobriety

        these could never happen

        for me

the chef relents

she is too cute, this impudent American

       and I feel a breakwall breached in my heart

       the ocean of dreams threatens  to flood reality

       for me, for you

       for all beings and non-beings

       for the countless Buddhas

       for the thus-come bums

       for everyone