Rinse Me Down

Well.
We have fun.


We stagger through the sucky, sloshy mud.


We ride horribly rickety, really awful,
definitely fun, fair rides. 


We get attacked by mud-slinging tires
(from people in a huge truck, talk about 
over-compensating!!)
And have our fun,
and discover...


oh.


Only a mid-size sedan plastered in
mud. 
It was as though a blizzard had come through.
Without the snow,
with lots of gross mud
that looked much too like poop.


In the dark and ick you all have a cow
and then go and wash the car barefoot
in a lonely carwash across the street from a
cemetery. It's great fun and a lovely time
and everyone laughs because the situation is
highly ridiculous. 


We make memories,
via photobooths; bumper cars
with silly, hilarious, dorky boys;
mudding; and through this tightly-woven
net of camaraderie that catches us whenever
we slip. Our faltering is always corrected,
our hearts always sewn back together,
our hands always held, our giggles always 
accompanied.


I wish that everyone could understand
this type of thing, this feeling.
I don't think everyone gets it, though.
I don't think everyone has such great friends.
I wish everyone did,
for without mine, I would be so horribly lost.
I love them with the entirety of my soul.


And so for one, my dear Jacket,
with whom I rode the ferris wheel last night,
and clutched hands with,
and pointed out the lovely night with;
who is one of the best people I know,
a poem:


Carnival

Like flying, 

stuck in this wavering purgatory

of neon lights,

we stood like giants

about the prettily-placed 

redbluegreen,

streaked with singsong

flashy yellow.

With the soundtrack of 

merry-go-round melodies,

and distantly twanging guitars.

 -

As the stars branched

in constellations next to us,

as the distance unfolded itself

unto us, this darkened landscape

of soft contours, which we could 

easily sink into,

and vanish.

If not for the greatly lit starry points;

if not for the million illuminating bulbs.

 -

And we clutched hands and 

became part of the night,

became the glittering lights,

melted ourselves to lie against the 

stars, so high up, past the trees.

 -

The winds swayed themselves

with our small tremblings,

of becoming cosmic,

losing ourselves against the 

shimmering, twitching fabric

of the land. The grid work

of rainbow fluorescence that

ebbed and flowed, blinked itself

in a frenzy to make the night 

dance.

 -

Up, up, in this technicolor connection,

we swung free, let our feet dip into the stars,

let the night claim us, and lift us, 

as we, with the pulsating throb of 

carnival lighting, became constellations

in the black landscape.