Vomit parades are not meant for everyone.
But you and I are full of celebration for it.
We wear ponchos with our names stitched inside.
We compare colors that no rainbow
would admit to having. We enlighten
strangers about what sick nights lead
to which splatter of good. Marching bands
can’t always control themselves, spew
in formation. Drums splash on cheerleaders.
The tuba delivers one last blast of gore.
Floats are so beautiful we can’t stand it.
We want to climb onto the toilet bowls,
embrace them like friends. Waving princesses
try not to fall over, hung over, deranged
by nights of grain alcohol and hot peppers.
When the marshal arrives you and I
decide to steal his Lincoln. We throw him
and his wife out the car, sniff the rancid
smell they leave and fall in love. Wings
launch from the doors. A choir of drunks
serenade us into the air. This way we can get
sick on everyone, people will call it hail and rain.
We’ll spill frogs, they’ll decide it’s a plague.
We’ll pour blood, they’ll think the end is coming.