https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2022/03/07/alive-at-the-end-of-the-world
The End of the World was a nightclub.
Drag queens with machetes and rhinestoned
machine guns guarded the red and impassable
door on Friday nights. Just a look at the crowd,
all dressed up and swaying outside, made people
want to yell the truth about themselves to anyone
who’d listen, but no one heard. The End of the World
was loud. The End of the World leaked music
like radiation, and we loved the neon echo, even
though it taunted us or maybe because it taunted us:
kids leaning out of windows hours after bedtime,
cabdrivers debating fares at the curb just for an excuse
to linger, pastors who’d pause at the corner and vow
that if they ever got inside, they’d burn it all down.
Saeed Jones is the author of the memoir “How We Fight for Our Lives” and the poetry collection “Prelude to Bruise.” His new book, “Alive at the End of the World: Poems,” is forthcoming in September.
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