AIN’T WE LUCKY WE GOT ‘EM, GOOD TIMES

by Rodrick Minor

On a cherryplanked floor in Durham

I twerk my soul

         into the weekend

I sweat out my devils over

the crooner’s voice   An exorcism in the wee hours 

Hips gyrate allusions of Jazz June

in a beehive of

celestial beings  Fingers pranced in air   

      as if the Holy Ghost grasp last week’s despair

Utopia     is a prayer often flawed yet when perfect

  everything is invincible here

  Dance my blackness and sins

in this hole in the wall and I make sweet love

Feverishly until I’m christened in a sea of survivors

   and the banners

             sway

          in the rafters

like a manifesto

Tonight I do not feel

    grotesque

      suicidal

           poor

          Am not the blackblue pulse scratchin

               for a throb, my existence

Press my smile towards the light fixtures as

              God

             is kissing anew me into next week

              Watch me moonwalk in heaven

for a moment

                Watch me

                           illuminate

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