Freddie was late. He would be in the East Village at the Poets Theater where his best friend, the poet Diane di Prima, gave an evening of dance performances. Recently, the friends had lost one of them, to drugs or suicide, they weren’t sure which one. Freddie would dance in their memory. While the crowd waited, di Prima paced the lobby, fearful that something similar terrible had happened to Freddie; she could see amphetamines starting to unravel him. But then he appeared, in black tights, a black leotard, thongs, and a mask painted on his face. “Kill all the lights,” he said to di Prima. It was the spring of 1964, and the dance, for Sergio, had begun.





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