And he leans in close to me; lets his words flow from his oral cavity. His poem is the rhythm, the one the whole universe does move to, and I bathe in these syllables. His breathe, it smells of boos, cigarettes, and lyrics. The cherry that is his deathstick burns and becomes the sun we revolve around on this planet that is the side of this house in downtown Phoenix. The party, it rages, rages around us, but the conversations don’t reach us, because this man is holding open a door to his consciousness, and step through, I have to step through. Moments pass and I’m just here peering inside. Please, poetry man, let me feel your beat.
His poem concludes, and he tells me about people who pay extra to sit in seats when they go to concerts, and those that pay less to dance on the grass. He writes on my skull in sharpie with his ideals, and in the mirror I could see, if I looked, a backwards “Always dance because life is music!” on my forehead. Life is a song, and it has it’s own rhythm. We all are just dancing to this rhythm. Dance with me? Let me dip you, let me twirl you.
As we walk away from the throng, someone else takes my place and becomes the youngest person at that party, and the poet’s rhythm still moves me.
If having money means being successful, I want to be unsuccessful, I’m thinking.
We drive back, and in the back seat, the leather back seat, I gaze out the back window, the glass back window, and we fall through the darkness. I want to the guy that is always a poet, even with a party around him, a beer in his stomach, and a cigarette in his hand. I want to be a poetry man, in tune with the rhythm that is life. I want to be poetry man, the man with the plan, the man who knows the world.

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