By Matt John Robinson

Already my tongue was a white water raft
slipping sideways and crashing into the boulders
of my teeth, navigating those tricky rapids
of mostly coherent language. My body
was quickly becoming more clumsy, giant-like,
the terrified colony of shot glasses
cowering before my destructive hands.
Wiping the dribble off my chin I suggest,
with complete disregard to said dribble
or the way in which my body leans
unintentionally, that we pour the Jungle Juice
into the Beer Bong because this is obviously
the only way to properly celebrate
the newly turned year.

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