In undergrad I wrote a series of poems for each month of the year and here is July.
There’s a chill as 3:00 slips into 5:00
and we wait for Radiohead to upstage themselves at 7:12
because they’re new every time.
Yorke pulls back,
he warms in the light of himself.
The crowd participates,
resonating toes with heated crescendo’s
The mama’s and the papa’s,
relive (cause they can’t stop confronting)
at midlife under frosty moonlight.
The moon is never so clear as when it burns on skin
and if we let it burn
we can see through it.
I track glances 90° westward for the loved one they seem to have (misplaced?)
in thick love at 8:20,
the time they realize lonely might be the same as alone.
Wrapped in smiles
percussive undertones pushing us up.
It’s not hot like it should be.
For the middle of July.
but we are dry.
Breath upon breath could warm
can’t encapsulate with what it doesn’t have.
We swim under stars,
over the glow that echoes onto the stage and
off the Columbia.
It runs and turns behind the basalt rock sculptures
that form the basin.
Seamless arches of granite fall in below the watery magic mirror.
Images move more than their possessors in the mercury flow,
it rocks us.
Tangled and torn
flesh on fresh cotton
from elephant ears and
we continue diving into the dust we create.
10:00 and they might have stopped pushing sound
they had to
go go on
because we all want to be under midnight
in their music.
We dance and chant in whispers,
come upon midnight in our cars,
We listen and wait for the next chorus,
but instead we are hit with the thump-thump-thump
in his trunk-trunk-trunk
the camp doesn’t sleep
controlled by pop pushers and trance choreographers.
mr. mr. volubilité.
Energy rushes up against him and her
They rebound in xtasy
because it’s been building up since 4:43 when
they first met.
Ticketmaster just became the next best personals.
shutting off the volume.
collapsed into amnesiacs
walking with smoky breath
find our skins warmer