poem of the day 08.26.15

i’m a genius writer

twenty-six years old

alto girl

head to toe in black

black skirt and black nylons

short red hair dancing

under purple smoke lights

of the metropol

hip chick, at least she thinks

beatnik chick

tells me

that i’m too young to be dancing

to 1984 throwback music

but i’m on two 40s of budweiser

some shots

a couple buck-fifty special yuengling bottles

so i’ll dance the dance

because i don’t care

even if she takes the brand new cigarette

out of my mouth

smokes it to toward the last drag

while we stand there

glistened in club sweat

she thinking me too young and she thinking she’s too old

waiting for whatever the night brings

and i can hear

calvin and steve hoot-call throughout the club

their fruitless cattle call

when she finally says,

i love the 80s

like it’s a grand statement

i think to tell her nostalgia is a hole

but she laughs

throws my smoke on the ground

crushes it with black heels

rolls her eyes at me

just another failed male on a saturday night

turns back to find her friends

leaving me

screaming to her shimming back

but i’m a genius writer

inhaling dry ice on the comedown

instead of that camel light.