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This house was not built to handle so much vomit.

In fact, this house was built before vomit existed, a pristine era,

the times of pre-four loko and simpler shoes,

of darker hues of blues instead of the sheen of dayglo green.

There aren’t any birds here. Not anymore. This is hallowed ground

of weird lights and computer-manipulated drum fills.

This temporary cathedral built from red solo cups,

this weird eye-contact with some guy in a toga,

this constant movement and shifting body heat,

this cool dance move that I just invented

called “the broken weather vane”.


This is the place where you have chosen to party tonight.


You are not calm. And you’re making sure everyone knows that

because you’re making what I would describe as animal noises.

You have a bicep tattoo and neither of us knows what it means.

Your hair is bad but your attitude is two mountains high-fiving.

You are howling. You are pointing at people sometimes.

Other times your hand is in the shape of a fist,

punching at the air on each downbeat with such ceremonial diligence

that for a moment it’s like your fist is

powering the music, somehow part of its unseen machinery,

instead of just a bass reaction.

You drink beer. You drink more beer. You drink more beer.

I’m not sure what we’re celebrating but I think it’s nothing.

The ping pong ball falls into the cup of beer with a pleasant sound

and the people around the cup react, again and again,

until the police come put us all to bed like parents.



Circle Poetry Journal///Ministry of Obscure Knowledge  ©  2015