by Douglas Goetsch

    Desperate to be part of the night，

    we jerked like a bunch of spazzes

    to that screaming eunuch， Michael Jackson.

    Randi Muelbach kept remarking

    You're such a good dancer！

    drawing closer， letting me grab her

    saggy¹ ass². My boogying was a sort

    of two-step hip³ gyration⁴ while holding

    my plastic cup of grain alcohol level.

    I had perfected the arm that remained still，

    kept it out like a bird feeder. Randi

    glued elbows to waist and swung

    forearms， hands and hips⁵ furiously.

    She was sweating something fierce.

    Her perfume was foul⁶ swamp flowers.

    From the futon on her floor I watched

    her pull her dress over her head.

    Fat and sadly flat-chested，

    legs already bluing with veins⁷， thick

    knees knocked in， the way the back

    wheels of a Volkswagen buckle⁸ with a load.

    Disgusted with myself——two years

    in college and still a virgin——I would

    stick my dick in a girl and end that.

    As she stepped out of her underwear

    I said， After tonight I don't want us

    to ever talk again. OK？

    That's what I said.

    She looked down at me and said

    Sure， like it was nothing.

    Through the cinder⁹ block walls

    I could hear that whole dorm writhing¹⁰

    on a Saturday night. Even Kim Putnam，

    the born again who wore only long skirts

    and was losing her hair， was getting banged

    and moaning like a wild woman.

    Sometimes it sounded like a crowd

    ooh-ing and ahh-ing at a car accident；

    sometimes I heard the night as one fuck

    xeroxed and traveling room to room

    like a rumor¹¹， or luck——good or bad，

    either way， I wriggled¹² and fought

    on top of Randi Muelbach，

    who kept whispering in my ear

    Such a good dancer.

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