New Year’s memories drowned away
I went to her cousin’s house, warned not to make rape or pedophilia or incest jokes because she was raped as a child by her brothers.
I mistook the Mick, mohawked & mustachioed & hanging all over the Madonna as the cousin’s boyfriend. He wasnt.
There were flies in all of the liquor bottles, and these were therefore thot not to be good to drink, tho I would have still.
I wanted to borrow like the Dirk Gently sequel, but her cousin doesn’t trust anyone to lend to no more. As it should be.
The last fellow showed up, finally, and after all finishing our drinks we were able to decamp to go to the real supposed meeting place for the party. A walk of 15 blocks at nite, but saucy, not completely sauced.
We arrive, some of far too many, packed together in an apartment so small the bed is in the living room. But we’re enjoying it.
Once arriving and inside, the room is cramped with about 12-15 people. But 10 more will arrive, at first.
Few know one another. So Games!
What is yr favorite ice-cream and infectious disease.
Write a four letter word on each finger.
Time to go upstairs, what a caravan — humans herded.
All march to the roof, with many others. It’s cold & there’s frost on the wood, which is slippery. None fall, many slide.
The wood floor of the roof is slippery with cold.
Ice-glazed, we slide on smooth soles.
It’s dark & the very few fireworks of entrepreneurs go off nearby loud but low.
One window with falling icicle light.
The lanterns float up, one after another, tracing the wind currents, thru overall [torn].
Paper lanterns drift up in the air from down below, one two three four five, but no more than three at a time. They wink out when they get very high up & burn out altogether, apparently.
The countdown, the fireworks. The Space Needle, so photogenic. Everyone has a phone out to record it, Instagram it, whatever; reality must be documented.
I scribble dozens of little nothing things, like the Boston-ish transplant who not only wears flip-flops, but also removes them to feel the ice on his toes. The half-couple who says to the other, ‘Well, we made it to another year longer.’ How the Mick & the Madonna miss most everything drunkenly groping openly (‘lovers or lovers for the night make out’). How rap battles accompany the countdown. How the New Year itself brings thinning out, trips to & returns from Dick’s. The question, ‘Does he know the rules?’ because he’s nodding out & his shoes are on.
And then I put off typing them up. Then I finally decide to, and I keep them in my bag & it rains & smudges everything partially illegible & already mostly forgotten when it happened mid-inebriation anyhow.