Church Street

Would you believe a street with such an unassuming name is the hub of night life in downtown Orlando? Yes, these bar-lined sidewalks crawl with stilettos and smoky eyes and, though I lived in Orlando for four years, the sheer irony of Church Street did not hit me until I was back for a visit recently. On a balmy summer night, I found myself downtown to celebrate a friend’s birthday and for some reason I could not shake the eerie sensation that I was standing on holy ground.

Now, hear me. I am not condoning weekend orgies. Nor am I prohibiting a night on the town. Honestly, I am a bit out of my element in the hazy atmosphere. I soon tire of shouting to be heard. I squirm at inevitable contact with strange figures. But with a group of friends, a drink and night of dancing can be fun. And on that particular evening this summer, as I fingered a martini and dug my elbow into the slick counter of a downtown bar, I wondered at the desperate immediacy of the hunger around me. Bodies and souls entwined on that grinding dance floor. No mistaking the dingy sacredness of that room, a yawning cathedral, where men and women gathered weekly to worship and feast. Ginger nods and the curl of cherry lips acknowledged familiar faces. People shook the dust of the week at the door and drowned their sorrows. Absolut. Corona. Jack Daniels. Stolen kisses. Reckless moments.

We are all hungry wanderers in search of communal, life-giving experiences. While some file into Sunday-morning pews among candles and liturgy, others flock to disco ball and pulsing beats. Neckties and plaid skirts costume church-goers while skin spills out of lace and leather of the devout on Church Street. Though dress code and behavior differ, thirsty hopes and fearful aches are the same. Hence, the following lines of poetry conceived in my mind that night, born of sadness and conviction. Sorrow for these silhouettes who may feel disappointed tomorrow or, more likely, will feel just fine. Sad because I, too, love to gorge my heart on hollow, frozen gods. I am just better at hiding, skilled in erecting a tidy exterior. So much easier to enter church with an apathetic, critical and selfish eye. I rarely wear desperation on my sleeve.


Church Street

Ring the bells, tinkle
of martini glasses
and whiskey sour. Pick
me please plastered
on porcelain faces, silent
call to worship. Ladies drink
for free tonight, so come
ye weary, find rest
in a sea of fractured
light and lurching
beats where hollow
and holy break
body, sip blood.