you can feel the beat of the place
from six blocks away
the thumping, underground sound
spreading like a arms
reaching like hands
weaving through the tiny downtown
yet even with the music leading the way
finding the door
is like entering an elaborate
alley cat maze
or playing a midnight round
of hide-and-go-seek
sometimes the patrons sprinkle themselves outside
like pixie-dust
tight, sleeveless shirts
thick, sparkling belts
smoked-through cigarettes dangling
between their thin, painted fingers
there is a velvet rope
but everyone with an ID gets in
one hundred heads
spikey and bobbing
try to stand out against a room full of people
who all look exactly the same
some dance
one hand in the air
one hand wrapped around a beer
bodies pressed against each other
hoping they'll find drugs
and then sex
or sex
and then drugs
some sit
at small, sticky
wet
tables
their eyes dart around the messy, red room
as if having a drink
were the only thing they came in for
fidgeting with matchbooks
lighters
straws
sometimes trying to speak over the throbing dance mix
to those they came with
if they came with anyone at all
i hide in the back
next to the bar
and the bathrooms
everyone in the place
passes me at one point or another
women, embarrassed in their drunkenness
stumble past me
grumbling
hating "this place"
and apologize for stepping on my feet
men, graceful and loud
brush past me
all elbows and knees
they are unaware of my presence
and that of any other woman there
i'm not sure why I come back
every two months or so
to this place
this den of addiction
this house of pick-up-lines
and sweaty, scribbled phone numbers
perhaps i need a constant reminder
of why it is i never stay
or
maybe
i'm hoping for some sort of magical transition
to have taken place between my visits
maybe
i'm hoping i'll find
a reason to come back