Church

After an afternoon nap
the Friday and Saturday night ritual
shoes, shave, iron a shirt, refill the zippo
and soak in Armani

Every weekend night, to the Discotheque
it was my church
or the closest thing I've ever had to one
the high ceilings, the mirrors
the dry ice, the vodka baptisms
the lights

...and you
all of you
sometimes like angelic virgins dressed in white
others with red deviled lips
in black skimpy dresses.

Drunk in lust
high on the lingering aqua net cloud
with pot smelly fingertips from the heaven sent roach
in my car's ashtray
hitching a ride on the Bacardi bat
always buzzing
always on the prowl

Sacrificial lamb between the lasers
or predator in the night lights
our legs and lips and fingers intertwined
sometimes at some cheap motel
on the green at the golf club
my back seat
or the bungalow by the racket club

Sometimes I would stare at your thighs
heaven knows I still do
and think of her's
then her's
and then so many other pairs I've seen before
in a salad of nylons and sheer
it all becomes a blur
and you all become one single perfect pair of legs
as I lay consumed in total apophenia

I miss that sometimes
Christine's, Disco Beach, Barbazul, and Palladium
La Boom, Taizz, News and Kaova
I smile as they become a pareidolia of happiness
of youth, of dreams

My roller coaster of your thong and thighs and nylons
the chestnut waterfall of your hair on your cinnamon shoulders
and the hazel storm of your eyes
have become my straight jacket
my orb
my memoirs.