Its party music and my muse tonight is a giant blood orange with a short skirt, sitting in the back row, behind me, watching my shoulder blades carry the tension of performance.
Its party music and last night I fell in love with a wild man on a school bus, fell deeply in love with his brain and my brain and all the things that felt possible.
Its party music and sometimes I just see body parts, the architecture of an ass, the probability of a thong, the parabolas and breasts and triangles and tubes.
Its party music and the folk musicians sing out the beauty of birds and mountains as the waves touch the edge of the bus in rhythm to their dirty fingers and long beards.
Its party music and ducklings stack in ascending eye height order, ready for a cultural feeding– pushing ear and nose and hungry beaks towards the source of tonight’s entertainment food.
It’s party music and James Wallace and the Naked Light grace the bus with sideways glances, cow eyes and the ambiance of understanding.
Its party music and Bikram Pochknoff performs Ringo Star’s Black Bird to cage full of critique, confusion and second generation Berkeley minded migrants.
It’s party music and I spit into the audience when I sing.
It’s party music and Daddy and Morris deserve another chorus about finding a late night finger fucking.
It’s party music and my dumb phone defines me.
It’s party music and sometimes your friends are in love with you and sometimes they are furious with you and now they sing about you.
It’s party music and all the people I invited didn’t come.
It’s party music in my tube house.
It’s party music and freshly harvested sand fleas squeak in boiling wine outside on Berkeley built landfill rocks.
It’s party music and electricity runs off a hot battery in a SUV 40 feet away, keeping one incandescent against the performers cheek.
It’s party music and Looper curls up on the drift wood throne alone clutching her knees and deciding with the world.
It’s Party music and pyramids of straw and hay are stationary towers under eucalyptus sway.
It’s party music and men with motorcycles and leather vests film acoustic sets on tablets holding them straight in front of their chests like excited mug shot placards.
It’s party music and she hands out 10 joints of homegrown blue dream candy whistles, popping across the dark audience like chemical fireflies.
It’s party music and a purple little horsey came out.
It’s party music and the security guards ignore the beachfront bus party for as long as they can.
It’s party music and we practice Horney boys songs under yellow sulfur lights with the confidence of comedians and the insecurities of artists.
It’s party music and my parents arrive in a Prius at 8:30pm, drift under the windows standing on tip toes to see the strange news from another star.
It’s party music and we plow through college high heels, burrito hands and traffic signals for donuts and the quesadilla.
It’s party music and we press skin and tits close together and bite nipples with canines 5 feet from the dog parks perimeter, two skin hounds pushing and pulling skin around each other, blankets of nerve endings – and its fucking cold; carving out hand holds on hips and bouncing everything up and down to some agreed upon rhythm, probably an accumulation of our collective musical upbringings – puff daddy and gal costa, meeting in tempo underneath steel envelopes on the streets of Berkeley.
It’s party music and the bed is full of sand and the sheets follow our limbs around.