20. Somehow she got up there. Jumped loosed. Loose jumped. Some say floated. New age kids say astral projected. De- and re-materialized. What material stretches the time space continuum like that? Somehow she up on the speaker. A million miles away from us on the dance floor and last season’s cement shoes. She my friend. Jumped. And those who couldn’t believe threatened to jump her. Some say flew. She my Chris Angel and up on the tower of speakers babbling and fat girls just dont do that. Don’t twirl they fat girl. Don’t re-appear after everyone disappear her. They say, Sheeeeee aint no go-go dancer. Sheeeeee needs to go go. Bitters and well vodka all. The kids are amazed at this childs nerve. Eyes try to cut the invisible string that has to be holding her up. They have seen the big boys vogue and do the splits, j-sette and prance. Few have seen one fly. Few believe in big black unicorns. Bigfoot. God. But this is her time. Yes now here on this, your favorite record. But in any battle, dance floor or war, a miracle is always timely and all bets are off. She spies the skinny child trying to pull out the night’s cap. A five no low. One low old trick. Umbrella. My friend does her unthinkable. Her show stopper. The weapon of mascara destruction. The umbrella. Pops it open. Twirls it. People who dont need no more bad luck back up. She bring shade then runs towards the disco light like death star. Like it calls for the desperate kids and lands in perfect scissor splits on the floor. She has been wronged in this corner of the bar, by the fans and the bathrooms and anybody who been coming to this bar for any amount of time know that Thursday nights are hers and miracles too few round here. The umbrella. My friend opens her hand and the umbrella suspends. Spins in air for 45 minutes. Apparition. Eclipse. Unassisted. We all gag. She peed for this.
Posted on: Fri, 11 Apr 2014 06:44:06 +0000
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