Rainbow colored tiny pieces of tissue paper float up and drift back downwards, blasted out of a cannon and into the cheering crowd. Birthday sprinkles and icing indicate celebration and excitement. Cake-y, carby sweetness of a mouthful of non-diet approved birthday cake. Vanilla, to be exact. Pillow-like softness. Back when I saw my first major concert – Green Day at Giants Stadium in East Rutherford, NJ, September 1st, 2005 – The end of the night, as their set started to wind down, quite possibly the last song, green, white, and red confetti rained down from the skies; Some plain, some with the American Idiot hand-grenade imprinted on them. It was transcendently magical. And I scooped some up from the floor and put it in my pockets to keep. I still have that confetti. I will never let it go, even if it is in a big, plastic storage chest in my basement. I cherish that confetti and I cherish the memory.

Streamers and party hats. Vuvuzela kazooing and hooting and hollering and having a grand ol’ time at a birthday picnic. Celebration in large, but manageable crowds. Riffing on a timeline, a parallel universe, where I close my eyes and tap my heels and wish that Star Trek is real. Childish fantasies streaking through dark winter skies like comets, trailing pixie dust and Tinkerbell not far behind. Grasping notions. Feeling restless and rundown after a long summer of busting your ass doing something for nothing.

Times Square New Year’s countdown, when that ball drops, God bless the people who pick up the little pieces of paper on the street and sidewalk, and those who clean up the piss and the vomit and the Lord knows what else. I hate walking through Times Square on any given day, and wouldn’t be caught dead there on New Year’s Eve. So many better things I’d rather be doing. The little wisps of flyaway paper. Floating like square feathers of some alien beast, alien peacock. Cubic alien peacock. And its screech and chirp is in 8 bit audio. Nintendo Galaga monster. Raisins sundried and mixed up in trail mix, but everyone avoids this non-consensual staple. Lily pad water bed, hopping from one to the next, lost youth, indebted to helpers and understanders, and compassionate folks. All around muddled.

Author: Roe

she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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