I find it curious that people put an end time on a party invite.
No room to breathe, extraordinarily inorganic.
Restrictive and lacking in color.
Party end times should always remain open-ended.
Don’t you think?
Sometimes my best work is accomplished in the waning energy of a social gathering.
I feel no pressure from the ticking clock as it advances.
My job is to break through that wall, become unmoored, and push all envelopes to the point of excess.
I am the progeny of Bacchus.
In fact, a direct descendent by blood.
Bloodlines, red wines, dancing divine.
Party is my middle name,
and I prefer engagements that weave endlessly onward toward dawn,
then onto brunch, wrapped up in giggling walks of shame.
Debauchery mystifies and beguiles my smiling eyes.
Mischief is to be masterfully made.
Do me a favor if you are having a party,
Have the decency to let the party determine its own life.
Definitely a start time, but the end time should be less finite, and stretch outward like an expanding universe.
Until, there is no light or energy left, but the void of space, and false burping hangovers, punctuated by piercing headaches in search of more excess.
A very special thanks to Sir Christopher Coxen. The future may be queer, but it is certainly bright.
40/40: Summer Poem Slam-a-bam is a project in which people have joined me for 40 days and 40 nights of on-demand poetry. They have submitted the concepts, ideas, and subjects; I’ve done the work.