gratitude, apologies, affection: this is none of these

On the 12th I was stood up and leaned out into the arboric night for bacchanal and battery. Shots in warm whiskey glasses and eying scenester girls that I've likely met and forgot in similar scenes. This is remasculation, this is like the time I called her by the wrong name in my head. From there parkoured my way with accomplices across all viable blocks. Jumping benches to the delight of weiner vendors, dancing atop concrete displays of corporate insidiousness. A waitress at an unholy amalgamation of Urban Cowboy and every building I avoid, asked us if vodka is the same as tonic. Our drinks were weak and cheap. A woman's globular breast popped out from her tapestry as she rode the mechanical bull. Most people were there to see that.
And then to the late night dance mess at the hipster bar where sometimes friends of mine play guitars and yell drunk things into microphones. This so familiar from dancing Detroit nights that I feel like a partner. Like there is some nonfinancial investment in all this bass and remix. I have friends there I've never spoke to but who recognize my jig. They point when I hit the floor. Art is the tension between what the artist does and what he or she does not do. Here I sprained my ankle because some voice from the 90s demanded that I jump. And I continued to dance because you were not there, and I was. Survivalism something we consider in mornings-after. We took a taxi for a free garbage bag of pizza and conversations with Jabba the Hut, who now sells cellphones on Broadway. We presume his sex slaves have filed civil suits and now live in small towns. I walked a mile to my hovel with that ankle, swelling up as though snakes had laid eggs in it. It does not bend or support weight now that I've leeched the alcohol.