Day Ninety-Two: The Union

by Tom Noonan

We lay rich in wealth and opportunity, so we party. The high arches of arrogance sprawl downhill, swallowing our campus, beer flowing in crisp currents. We set out to consume the things you dream, so we party.

The sun is blocked out, intentionally, white tents vaulted upwards, soft lighting taking its place. We wander the empire, basking in its glow, our glory, relishing in our separation from the corrosion beyond these borders. We throw water on your rust, so we party.

And it grows, like mold, like a time lapse, the crowds swallowing up everything, drinking till they’re numb, till everything kind of comes together, overlapping, like thousands of Venn diagrams, but no one can feel it. We are all stacked against you, so we party.

And the river flows faster, all downhill. The assumptions and conceits are carried on chants and songs, banners emblazoned with the thrones we’ve stolen from you. We jerk each other off among the tulips. A funeral procession hums along somewhere off-camera, so we party.

Then bricks begin to crumble, buildings topple from the seismic movements of the crowds, and when the dust settles, they still can’t feel, so they begin to devour each other. Their story needs to be heard more than your story, so they party.

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