There are hints of purple circulating,
permeating effortlessly through the tides
of cigarette butts scattered like
collegiate confetti upon this
school-sanctioned festival lawn.
There are as many indications of the sense
of royal grandeur in the blueprint
of this biannual gathering as there are
teeth being exposed in the wide-eyed smile
the kind of girl who makes you query
if her way of living
is really that damn scary.
What about it?
How about optimism?
Have you tried that lately, Pedro?
Well, have no fear!
Sari Fari is here-
and if you don't finish
this fuckin poem
by the second deadline,
she's gonna be fuckin mad pissed, yo.
She speaks to all in clear sight
at the volume of a childhood friend
you haven't seen in a torturous
amoutn of months,
running around this tent-spackled turf
with feet cradled by sisterly affection
towards the indiscriminate expanse
of the lucky collective she has labelled "brethren."
An aesthetically pleasing smile
is something obtainable,
even if it requires dubious amounts of study,
but the spirit that's buoyed
by one with sincerity
can be supernatural in its grace.
Expose it to cynicism,
that overly compensated shadow,
and watch it become blinded
and stumble through the cracks,
removing itself from your new geography.
The most exquisite hints of luxury
can be found in a store-bought tent.
With such a small surface area,
it's easier to fill the place with laughter.
So how about it?
Have you tried seeing love
not as a single-celled organism,
but as a kingdom with multiple species?
That's the case
with Sari Fari,
who ain't so scary,
if you just try
just try being happy,
and while you're at it,
find the fucking glue!