Landing on The Disco Channel
Again I sat as sad zombies sit, listening to musical moments a waning life can do nothing about. I remember when my limbs were not wooden branches. I remember when age was not an enemy lying in wait in the surrounding shrubs. I remember when my yearnings were silky and fine to the touch, like a woman glowing in youth. I remember when disco was like blood. This is a stage. I put the trash out at night, getting rid of, at night, what is needless any hour. The moon above me was drunk in its whiteness, looking at me as if I might be there someday hanging beside him; me, another heavenly body. Nothing is as it was. Damn it, can I not say this in a stern, calm voice? My tremulous voice is the tongue of the past, when I remember legs, arms, and futures in youthful, hopeful motion, and when it comes back to me--the dancing, dancing, the careless exhaustion, the days when disco was like blood; the days when life was dancing too. © Lamont Palmer
