waiting on line for a sex party, sebas and i
go back and forth inventing parties
we’d rather be attending—what we’d throw
if money, physics, and law were all
different animals: a vaccine and hormone
distro-party with a cry-floor and dance-
bathroom. a party where we assemble
arms and storm the pharmaceutical
headquarters stoned in hand-stoned gowns.
a party where we dance on the ceiling
before flooding the streets to shatter
the windows of every living waymo.
conflagration party. extrication party.
assassination party. Muñoz gestures
the dance floor can be schemata
of a forward-dawning futurity & i can
only tell you what this means dropping it
low on bad knees. the future dawns
on us like a daily egg in the breaking
present. the price of eggs is sky
rocketing so it’s cheaper to throw stones.
the party and poem don’t share
the same constraints as the fire marshall
or bureaucrat. when the party will not
save your life, find a better party.
when that party doesn’t exist, throw it.
still on line for the sex party, a guy
on sniffies tells me the building we’re
waiting to enter is where the SLA
once held patty hearst, before she turned
on her father’s fortune. history is
everywhere, whether you’re dancing
or not. history is both inside & waiting
to enter the party. the party can be
anything if you never make it inside.
every good space is built, fought for,
and temporary as our bodies. to party
is to divide the waters. a flood is
coming. it’s fifteen dollars at the door
to paradise, sliding scale, infinite dj’s
spin the queer gospels, an open
bar serving only clean water, no one
turned away for lack of funds.
Sam Sax is the author of the novel Yr Dead (long-listed for the National Book Award) and the poetry collections PIG, Bury It, & Madness. They live in Oakland California.
Photo, “Rainbow in the Dark,” by Jilli Penner