I’m thankful my dreams weigh nothing, that my thoughts don’t drive a scale insane should I stand on one, feeling encouraged. I can speak cleanly, without fear
of leaving bowling balls at restaurants or bags of sand at a backyard party.

Slurred speech is a jazz that never kissed vinyl.
Oh, how I talk abundantly near the kitchen table
where the red Solo cups crouch in little columns
and the kegs or bottles get pushed around like shoeboxes filled with God.

Parents are insane with hope in a college town, dreaming their little dumbbells:
of children reading under trees or calculating velocities in the Wal-Mart lamplight,
of bean bags never sticking with the sweat of sex,
of washing machines replacing parties.

I watch undergrads in heels stagger down ancient sidewalks,
their asses framed by dresses and the ideas they had
when the little zippers slid up.

I see young men moving in packs between the bars and the frat houses,
stealing kisses from other men in the safety of their drunkenness.

I see football stadiums glow like churches, and the mascots run
with giant heads smiling like it’s the same secret lurking in the palms of every hand.

I see chaos in dorm hallways, puke splatter like Pollack paintings,
the smell of weed and hookah billowing to the bass of heartbeats and rap.

The mind would weigh more than the earth if each want was a small piece of iron.
I hear often from the locals that this town is sinking.