Oola-oola-illa-illa-nm-nm
My heart's in my throat, two years since
again in the nucleus of this breathing amoeba
each organelle here ready to be raptured
our jobs, sedation, mania, chatter all mix and mingle fluidly.
He takes the stage and a quiet joy takes our words,
he has great, thick metal pillars, a henge around him,
No! Not metal. Scars.
Hot, flesh pink, melting wax, so soft I could touch them,
my eyes touch them, over, and over, and I can see the first scars I ever saw, clear as day in my ten year old mind.
I fumble and fidget, front teeth pacing against the flesh of my bottom lip
until the community is too much to ignore - they take purchase.
I'm bleeding, softly, and I recognize the cuprum taste, at least one hundred abstractions away from me, but it's soft and faint and warm and the room is soft and here and warm, so I don't mind, so noone minds.
Because of course, as we're all reminded, blood flows.
I look away from the stage, toward the ceiling - the fan is a delight.
It blinks and stutters so I blink and stutter and smile at the pace it keeps.
It just sp-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-ns, no fuss over nothing.
It has no thoughts, but it brings up thoughts.
Do you love me?
In this crowd, I know you well as I know Bethany and Evan. We all do.
The music was loud and the sensations were loud and the bathroom smelled loud.
But amidst it all he has the grace to remain downright messianic.
He has a halo after all. I'm sure at least half the room can see it. All in silvers and soft-pinks, aesthete, just for us.
His voice is so damn pure, just listen to those high notes!
We stagger off, swollen, stoned, sober, swallowed.
Can we capture the occasion permanently without help?
I demand of her that we request assistance, just in case we don't.
Everything is new and everything is old.
Everything is them. Everything is us.
Social media and public transit are synonymous and simultaneous as we slink our smiling selves back home.
