Dodo Eraser

Autechre in the Black Tent in August, Helsinki,
Where it was not black, where the sun was setting outside,
Where the noise did not overwhelm,
Where I walked off free into the early night

Racket where the man on stage was so young and so slight,
Dwarfed by his coat, which a musician should never be,
Unless they are David Byrne in the Big Suit, except the suit fills with his energy,
Like a sail it takes him further and faster on the wind,

Irving Plaza where I tell the bouncer I am going out for pizza only,
But there is no reentry, and I do not want to return, and I do not get pizza,
Where I remember being a decade before with an ex, a terrible ex,
If it needs mentioning, because they are mostly all terrible,
Which is not why I leave, because that was so long ago, so far,

And Fat Boy Slim, only because it is so late, and the timing is off,
Which is really embarrassing as he is much older but much more energetic,
Which could be the influence of a substance, but feels like only his joy overflowing,
Something you must practice, something which can always be honed,
And I have honed it some, but there is far to go,

Hence the departure from Ninajirachi, where the floor feels it may collapse,
Where the room shakes, where the young people crowd against me
And I bridle, and check the time, and bike home in the late summer night,
Wrapped in my neon green windbreaker, hoping to stay alive, but happy,
If I died—know I was happy

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Nora Rawn works in publishing and lives in Brooklyn. She spends an alarming amount of time on twitter.