NYU Black Renaissance Noire Volume 18 Issue 3 - Fall 2018 - Page 72

Dia De LA ‘Dance’ Men with knives shiver in the shadows. Theirs is the assignment of a lifetime. Watch the needle move higher. On the monitor. Slip a finger under the strap. Sneak a peek. Car careening. Some afternoons are more comfortable with a reason why. Sly & steady wins the cherry. Bury me high on the hill & under a full moon. Soon they’ll come to bargain. No one will be surprised. Some day it may prove possible. Waffling has become common practice. Ask & you too may be disemboweled. Follow the leader up the ladder. With one quick thrust they . . . Can you imagine a world without winter. No matter. Without a pot to piss in. Or so it goes. They left him. Full of wonder. Bleeding in the snow. Or was it a turkey sandwich? Out of line. First. There were antelope at first. Never speak unkindly of an assassin. To live or to die. Fine, I’ll have a tomcat. That & a walk on the wild side. Enough already. & here’s where the weather turns. Into a garage. Red doors & what’s more? Famous for guns & Guinness. Slaughter house blues. Retaliation & revenge. He’s just a kid. & him too. Something about time, temper & turmoil. All that’s left are the flowers of spring: Lilies of the valley, Lilac, Heather, Ranunculus & Bloodroot. The pillows are full & the dancers are full & the singers roam unscathed & she appears & kicks some ass & the stammering bodies are sucked up a tube & their crumpled skins are left to rot in the rain. Reindeer shuffle & strut, waddle & lurch & he is the explosion & the mask, the incendiary & the flaming wall while she’s the queen of drag & that one too & him with his slippery copper skin & they rampage & curse & clamber up on pointed joints & inflexible toes bearing the pain of evidence & the trial of exasperation. One by one they hug & giggle & scramble to the top of the mountain where air is pink with pollen & no one lasts long & the rhythms are deafening as are their pleas for resurrection. Two by two they challenge territory, flinging smoke & starlight across the mumbling fumes & pious cigars, whispering feet tapping code only the blind can read. They unite in a swarm — disciples in their desolate dance . . . to heaven or hell whichever commandeers lethargy & welcomes them first. Men With Knives