I fuck myself up, and what I consume you shall consume, for every beer belonging to you as good belongs to me.
I chug and invite my soul, I chug and swig at my ease, observing a spill of golden drink.
All common rooms are full of perfumes … the shelves are crowded with perfumes, I slurp on the fragrance myself, and know it and like it,
The IKEA furnishings would intoxicate me also, but I will not let them.
Stop this day and night and you shall possess the origin of all hangovers,
You shall possess the dizziness of the grain and grape liquors … there are millions of drinks untasted,
You shall no longer expel vomit a second or third time … nor binge on a deathly wenzel … nor feed on the gossip of blacked-out spectres.
There was never any more inflation than there is now,
Nor any more As or B minuses than there are now;
And will never be any more gut classes than there are now,
Nor any more cheating or failing than there is now.
Scroll and scroll and scroll,
Media always the procreant urge of the world.
Out of the anxiety opposite desires advance … Always drunkenness and self-improvement,
Always of knit of mindfulness … always crying on the phone … always a breed of life.
To Instagram is no avail … Basic and nonbasic feel that it is so.
Blacked-out as a sea-cave … swaying in needle-shoes, well-dressed, clenched in the sphincter, thirsty as a dog, affectionate, horny, electrical, I and this mystery here we dance.
Clear and sweet are all those I have loved through Elihu Yale … and clear and sweet is my freshman year roommate who loved me through Elihu Yale.
Athletes and lawyers surround me,
People I meet … the effect upon me of Intro to Micro … of the college and entryway I live in … of this college our college,
The daily news … sports, opinions, societies … big names old and new (Makai Mason ’18 you I salute), My getting-of-meals, friends without benefits, crushes and crushed,
The real or fancied indifference of someone I love or gaze at with pure heart in dining halls as the swaying of hair again entices,
They come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But in the Toadsbelly they are not the Me myself.
Loafe with me on the dance floor … loose the stop from your feet,
Not choreography, not timing or poise I want … Not skill or finesse, not even Rhythm and Blue,
Only you moving I like, only the sweetness of your limbs in motion I like.
I mind how we lay in April, such a transparent spring morning;
You settled your head athwart my memory-foam pillow (O my one dear possession!);
You gently turned over upon me,
And lifted the Patagonia fleece I had stolen from the giants on High Street,
And reached till you felt my stubble, itself the filth of midterm season,
And reached till you held my feet.
A freshman said, what is the Dubra? handing me a handle with full hands;
How could I answer the freshman? … I do not know what it is any more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my future, out of low-sunk GPAs woven.
Or I guess it is the elixir of my Honesty,
A fire tasting elixir that gifts me the rites of true talk,
Bearing inside of it the route to the corners of being,
Whither I can announce to the free soul in the black dress, American or not American, equal in spirit … my love of her is my love of the Lord … she my Lord, and I see no difference.
Or I guess the Dubra is itself a freshman … ignorant of the danger and beauty it effects on us of every type who are hoping in New Haven.
Tenderly I will use you plastic Dubra,
It may be you transpire from the tears of the sorority goddesses worshipped by me, who all have onetime walked home in bare feet as who can bear the weight of the world?
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from Professors and TAs, and the children of Professors and TAs,
And here you are in my lap.
The blab of the pavement … the tires of Ubers and sluff of Stan Smith sneakers and the talk of the Woadsers,
What groans of food-poisoned or stomach-pumped who fall on the dance floor passed out or in fits,
What living or buried speech is always vibrating here …what howls restrained by decorum,
I mind them or the resonance of them … I come again and again.
I do not ask that you take me seriously. I do not ask that you tap me or crush me, or pass me or fail me, or hold the door of the Woolsey rotunda for me, or check in on me, or reach out to me, I merely ask that you breathe this spring air with me, and if you want me again look under your bootsoles.
Failing to text me at first drunk thought encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you