I'm finding it hard to concentrate.
There's a stoned Buddhist monk screaming chants in our living room,
I have an organic chemistry final
in two hours,
and my boyfriend is doing
birthday ketamine
at the ocean bluffs under the Medusa tree
with forty of our closest friends.
Dancing fairy lights, and bonfires,
and there is a meteor shower
tonight,
and it is calling me
with pock-marked celestial surfaces
like the oxygen atoms
in these alcohol groups,
and they're drinking without me.
Why did my professor
schedule an ochem final
at eight pm on a saturday?
The blind monk has brought out his cymbals,
monkey finger-cymbals, like the ones
that those wind-up toys clang together
between their furry little paws,
setting a dancing beat—
a rhythmic cacophony.
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