I was 1/3 pink, 1/3 blue, and 1/3 green and it was high moment to awake out of sleep, poetic reverie, and my very own gov’t issued junk withdrawal...I figured my figures and came up with massive glee, emainating from drunken patrons, who, like me, were adept at the blonde waltz...I focused on the matter at hand…to the only detail that seemed to matter...getting in carnal with this highway Johanna...God was she something to experience...all her magic, grace, mystery, femininity, and intelligence...I was youth in a Jerkin Frieze among a bevy of scamps, louts, tear-aways of all kinds...we were on the back edge of the par quay when the PUNTA music moved in and gripped the throngers...and like a sudden new art movement, Johanna was moving in eighths and sixteenths, with broad sweeping brushstrokes of a lyric intensity and compression I hadn’t seen since the sonnets of Wyatt...I moved my arms in perfect mimesis to the movements of her hips and torso...I sent the orders down to my mid-section to duplicate what my peepers were taking in but the lines must’ve been crossed because what my hips were doing looked like Thomas Eakins up against De Kooning…I didn’t care because the Seagram’s or Jack had oiled me welll...and shouldering my spear I kept at it behind her, running my hands up and down the contours of her hips and waist...the arcs of those lines were fabulous to hold and had a most interesting effect on the planes of my thought...I wanted in the finest sense to behold the perfection of big machines at work even behind evil corporations, big green power plants where infinity and long division were commonplace, behind the ax and behind the wonderful rooms full of drink and electricity where we were just lanky puppets gassing on their exhaustive half-truths......they made us dance for sugar booze and sugar sex and sugar hope while they raked in the dough...
I was dancing best I knew how, which aside from some admittedly good disco moves I had honed in college, was not much for the books...it was hard to tell what Johanna was thinking—judging by her non-verbal communiqués, I was pretty sure she was considering a late night chance encounter...younger, greater, ever truer shivers were going through her body right in to mine and the improvisation of gadfly minutes was getting better and better with each insane song that was spun...when it came time to Punta I bowed three times to St. Jude and let it rip...
I guess this went on for a couple hours until finally she just walked off the dance floor with just a slight glance over her shoulder to let me know that it was just barely ok for me to follow...and over she went to her girlfriend I hadn’t met yet who had also danced a few numbers with a crazy adept punk man right in front of us...and that lady had absolutely no use for me, shouldering a cold millisecond nod as if to say “white nights in shitty armour”…
-Michael Price
