-movietime erotica-

I was thirteen years old,

when with a mouthful of jellied "Dots"

the palm of my hand slipped slowly beneath

the hem of Cynthia Lasagna’s blue-checkered dress

just above the knee when she shifted fast in her seat

pivoting her legs toward the aisle and my hand fell

dumbly to the side of emptiness.

this happened on Pleasant Street, the southend section of town

drenched in the blue-grey flashing light of the Strand Theater

east-side of "Zeke's Coney Island" west-side of "Pleasant Drugs"—

front row of the balcony where the pages of enlightenment were turned.

––the groping boys introducing themselves

to the girls of their dreams from the back rows

on the rising slope high above us were the first to be nabbed

by the pimple-headed ushers pushing their way through

the swinging doors like skinny brownshirts in training

on the goose-step with flashlights ablaze, dancing spots of light

over the clumsy embraces of the clueless back-benchers and believe me,

it's in the front row of the balcony where the explorations of young love continued

without the impediment of authorities doing their jobs at one dollar an hour.

when you shake

a box of "Dots"

nothing happens.

there’s no sound.

they cling together

like pigs squeezing

into the farthest

corner of the sty

because they know

something’s up.

but your hand’s gotta show-up in the balcony

where the rite-of-passage is handed down from cousin to cousin.

–– It's not that I understood the natural order of things

just because the jellied "Dots" stuck together.

–– but Cynthia Lasagna’s blue-checkered dress was better

for me than Betty Spaghetti’s hand-me-down slacks

or Lori Gnocci's impossible petticoated poodle skirt.

later, as the Strand played-out, the "Dots" began to tumble

into the palm of my hand as did the knee beneath the hem of the blue-

checkered dress of the ever-young Cynthia Lasagna.

Quequechan