I am tonight’s DJ.
I am neon strobe lights having a seizure
in warehouse storage rooms. My music floods
veins like heroin needles injected behind downtown garbage bins
filled with vodka and run.
The beat of my lyrics pounds
beneath rib cages and skulls forming blackout nights
that reek of soiled skirts.
Thank God it’s Friday.

I am the Drama Queen.
I stand center stage awaiting my standing ovation,
a concert of applause dedication to my final bow.
In between curtain calls and cat calls I pay tribute
to the wild cheers for encore. Bouquets of roses tossed to the lime light
where I pick them up.
Everyday I open a new show.

I am the missing link.
I am the Spanish pit stop before the South turn on the highway,
Hispanic waters hours away.
I am balancing act between “love” and “amor”
with each word taking a turn to dance on Latin tongue.
My complexion incites jealousy among ivory limbs:
“Mulatas never sunburn.”