Tentacled leviathans, semi-automatic rifles,
and the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,
to escape them we cross the sea in yachts and rowboats,
and on surfboards. We pooh-pooh the prophesies
of doom sayers and drown their scrolls.

Demons cannot cross open water.
With a sea between them and us, we rent rooms
above bars, cafes, and tattoo parlours. We dress up
in our party clothes, leave our doors unlocked,
and later, go to sleep with windows open.

Hung over from the night before,
we sprawl in our beds at first light,
the beep beep bop of dance music still playing
as our never-ending jamboree migrates from one house
to another. By sundown we are up and out
quaffing and guzzling.

We appoint carousing committees to keep our
celebration going. We live for the luau, put our hope
in hoedowns, we would die for disco—
party poopers are strung up by their heels.