The ink splattered tie-dye and oblong, circle cow-print patterned, helium balloons loitered peacefully suspended, and scattered overhead in the living-room of this one-story duplex rental just east of CU campus: the Skyline House.

Each of the tens of dozens of multicolored balloons had their lips tied tight with thin ribbons, loose and curled, hanging from the spackled low-ceiling to the trampled carpet floor.

And for some odd reason, each long and smooth wrapping-string, inevitably, was tied to some one thing or another: brown beer bottle neck, pronged microphone stand, the ankle of a girl’s ripped stocking.

It was a night for Punk and Poetry and the House aimed to please with an event they called “Weep Year.”  Organized in part by Jake Grieco and others currently enrolled in the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics, there were hard-core bands (MAMMYTH, Warm Dad, and Black Market Translation) Immeasurable poets, (Eric Fischman, Emily Clark, Cait Turner and more) and all night drinking until the cops showed up (which, after 6 noise-complaints, the Dark-Blue arrived around 1 am to shut it all down… but not before some madness got let loose!!)

Once darkness solidified and the Christmas lights were all that illuminated, youngsters with funny haircuts and glossy eyes, sat mindfully on the floor to listen to a girl read cross-legged from her lap-top.

The few standing in the kitchen with boots and black jeans were silent over their beer cans while their ears tilted toward the soft voice on the microphone.

Gulps were tipped down throats, and for one chap, it came right back up, splattering onto his feet, and the short-haired girl sitting in front of him.

As he stumbled away (brown slime on his chin), and she screamed in dismay (brown slime on her shoulder), and smoke instead of the smell sent many to the porch… where all was confessed, “He was the first poet to read.”

Eventually a punk-girl and her mate strummed an electric uke and a bass and yelled inaudibly over buzzing amplifiers and louder metal strings.

It was smokes and jokes, when before too long, it became Black Market Translation! (blackmarkettranslation.com) with full drum-set and bass, lead guitar and rhythm, and singer.

The sound was loud. The sound was heavy. The sound was clear.

The sound vibrated the whole House!! (And the neighbor’s…)

High energy punk with sweaty rock ‘n roll, the tie-die and cow circles bounced off the walls.

Jumping and bumping, hair flying and falling, the balloon strings entwined everybody; forcing cocooned meets and entangled escapes – all moshing in delight.

The House got hot and humid, beer bottles got smashed and stomped, microphone stands were tipped over and ignored, and the girl was gone with the balloon.

The last song rang everlasting in ears as the popping of balloons celebrated approval.

And the next band, in full scream, greeted the smiling law enforcement.

Leaving the House a mess, leaving the House more easy to explain, it all to their dial-friendly neighbors… it was just a poetry reading.

Urwill Rocks! is a mysterious beat(nik) reporter for Boulder Poetry Tribe.  No one knows who they are, but they seem to show up to poetry events and write about it sometimes.