Alan King

Black Body MarmaladeFor Steve, Jason, and that summer
years ago when all we did was club

we are aerosol
diffused through a wall
of bodies wet from funk
climbing out of pores

like worms crawling
through soft dirt

trying to find clearing
on a crowded dance floor

waiting for the DJ to take us there
and make us buoyant bodies loose
in the atmosphere,

the dense matter drifting
from Black & Milds

the needle scratches the vinyl
solar system Paul Beatty
once defined as the universe
a hundred light years from earth
where depth perception disappears

and he asked me if you could play
creation on a turntable, what
would it sound like?

tonight the DJ’s a master
of polyrhythmic phonography:
hands working ambidextrous
over turntables

as tiny stars flare up from
club lights diffracting off body
dresses – the sequined behinds
a thousand disco globes
over the dance floor

tonight a sista’s thighs
be a wrecking ball of percussion
beating jelly-rhythms off
(no stanza break)
a brothas’ pelvic bone

daring us to hurt ourselves
on those hips – an eight
second bull ride before
we’re thrown to seclusion
with our egos wounded

we scrambled at the base
of Pandora’s opened box
exorcising our dancing demons
in a marsh pit of perversion:
testosterones and estrogen
meshing in a humid club

the hot air misting
on our epidermis before
we shed our bodies
like butterflies breaking
through their cocoons

now moving as shadows
under a full moon moving
liquid-like almost moving
as amorphous bodies
amalgamating in the rhythm
and acoustics bouncing
off of club walls

bouncing off the walls
of a molasses jar
packed to full capacity