one from the archives

the effort

sometimes
the effort seems so silly
and misplaced
that you want to
simply slip away
down a mountain road
to some isolated
foreign dancehall
where you can
sweat happily
into the night
with a doe-eyed
revolution widow
whose hair is tied behind her
and whose mouth curls
up in a devil's wink
and whose body is as
hard as a whip-stock,
wet from the close,
poorly-ventilated space
and urged on by the
music and the joyous cries
of men and women
in a time of resurgence
in a time of allowance
in a time of unwound muscle
and muted nerve

unbound, you only need dance,
no native tongue required
when eyes translate
so well

no need of plans and
understanding
so long as music plays
and moonlight
defends us

this effort
defines us.

© scn 5-15-01