Do the Shogun Moon

by Kyle Hemmings

At The Jumping Jackaroni

 they do a variant

of the Electric Slide. Nobody

touches ground. I invent 

my own rhythm sticks

& fling my wet cloth of despair.

Here, you're either a renegade or

an amnesiac under acid flashback strobe.

If you die on the dance floor,

they bury you with your taps on.

Heel to toe, our bunions 

are our ingrown medals.

I still have trouble putting

one foot in front of the other,

my two-step is as clumsy

as bumper cars. By the time,

the barmaid with the stitched lip

announces last call, I'll be spinning

without a partner. I'll be lighter

than fizz, foam, or bubble. 

By 5 a.m., I'll be heavier than death.

The outside world is an almost-corpse

that twitches with an old frog's heart.

It only had two left feet.

Sometimes the lead foot

stuck in its drooling mouth.