Those moments summer solstice steals from equinox
like the longest days of youth when young stays light to forty
wild-ish nights, still under control at 2 AM in a taxi to Roseland
the bitter Ecstasy, the coat check line where the Ecstasy kicks in
the themed-garb reveal—white denim, white boxers, white feathers,
white leather—on me, white overalls over nothing
one bib-strap dangling free
to the ballroom, a field of swaying Madonna Lily boys
I step like Dorothy to the poppies but don’t sink and sleep—
I float the froth of collective fantasy—bass and beat a sonic mattress
caressing me, spinning me to Sweet Dreams are Made of This surrounded
in white and flesh and found friends of proximity and hands
40 years later—in my dream 30s in virtual over-nothings still spinning
but to an 80s disco compilation—ecstasy implied
.
David Quintavalle
.