and listen

rapture lights, and the firmament of the sky wheeling like a bowl of wishes being dandelion-tossed about;; like light ;; like visible sound perched on 20,000 shoulders — us, an us for a moment, for an evening together as the sun dips under the philly skyline — the waterfront pressing towards us like a dappled water-beast ;; the thunderous applause of a drumset on fire , the rage of racing the rain back under shelter, the bliss of feeling young and wild,, the courage of the music to keep playing amongst the clatter of the stars in the sky — the pull of community towards the longing for togetherness;; a happenstance community formed in a matter of hours towards the common stage we enrapture ourselves in — towards the rapture, towards the glow, towards the sound of the music cheering towards the night sky;; come summer, come light within;; come every blade of grass, smother yourself in rain — and listen

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Wedding, 4/8/17

I don’t have any shame
about sitting alone at a wedding
tucked into a windowsill, tapping into the bloody bones of a small phone (smart/ brilliant perhaps, but a leash)

The people
wild, hungry,  consuming,  devouring,  restless in the outreach towards the sociability of normalcies and ritual of construct

I have no issue
sitting in a windowsill watching the sun douse the Delaware river in golden flecks of love remembered (a Saturday in April more precious than the reflection of yachts on the harbor)

I recognize the moment
I greet it / I fumble towards it with my palms like fans / I sit in the windowsill / I watch Philadelphia turn crimson. We sing the songs of ritual. We do not call them initiation, we call them wedding words and traditionvows.
I sit in the windowsill.
We do not call it initiation, we do not call it a spell. We have lost our appetite for these words. Now we devour Hibachi-buffet-tempura by the handful and call it a night.
I sit in the windowsill,
I recognize the moment
I greet it