Once, they were the party, baby. They were the freaks,
and the dance, the music, and the whistles, the holler,
the sweat, and the heat of the grind. They were the cool
fools, hyped up on speed and booze and tripping on ecstasy.
They were the high-pitched sirens and the manic screams
of the city.
They made the streets, the clubs, the backrooms, and the
alleys all moan and holler and freak beneath the indigo night.
They were the sex, and the light, the smoke, and the furtive
cigarette. They were the weed, and the high, and the ridicu-
lous giggle after it. They were the hot sigh, the wild grunt,
and the primitive sweat of the hard luck, transitory fuck.
They were this city’s rogue Romeos and its sorrowful ad-
dicts, its oxygen thieves, and its dying poets.
And then, all at once, they were gone.
And now, on Saturday nights in New York City, some eight
million people still exist to live and breathe, to date
and dine, to drink and smoke, to party and get high. Some
still live to dance, to freak, to kiss, and to fall in lust
with a body that glows as it sweats in the dark.
Some still pray and some will still dream. Some will aspire, some
will scheme, and some will sadly quit. Some will still find the
energy to create and some will only destroy.
Some will bitch and whine and kick and curse and scream at God.
And some will get their hearts broken, and dwell in the loneliness
of their own private hell . . .
And the city still blinks and strobes and winks and laughs its
steely cold laughter at them.
From The Moanin' After by L.M. Ross
One.
