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I felt stuck for a second, just now, sitting down here to do this. Then I played some sexy music and danced around for a bit, and now I believe I can write anything. I’d almost forgotten about The Marilynn, and I haven’t poemed that way in awhile, so it seems fitting.

So, a sexy, dance-y poem it is:

These Days Dancing

It begins, these days, in the kitchen when the music is loud and the dishes dirty, it begin with a big slow roll, letting the top of the head rest down toward the shoulders all in beat, then chin falling to chest and up around the next side, how can you stop the hips from following, the, in the rhythms you crave, swinging with drums. What follows next is just an easy drop and roll, down to the heels and up through the spine, and yes, it pops these days, but it feels better now, more on time and necessary, yes, I can still put my hands on the floor at the same time as my feet, and yes I can arch like that, still, and yes these hips circle like mechanical egg beaters, yes, that’s just exactly that. Suddenly my feet wake up, and remember the bones in those arches. My calves are humming along and they crave that snare, its the thighs that get the bass, and carry it up, straight on up. These days dancing means more after the dishes are done, because its just exactly that reminder, it’s just precisely that great reminder, that I have nothing to lose by loosing the maelstrom that is my hips, I’ve got nothing to by giving over to this beat, only minutes can be spent here,

and all the percussion is owed to me now.


I dance every night in my kitchen. I’ve probably written about that before, but whatevs.  Happy Friday, poem people.