minneapolis, minnesota

and sparkle-dragon golden teeth will fall out of your hair. folded origami feathers will float off of your shoes. wedding bells like shark jaws will dream into the air. hungry industrial rubble and the shine of glowing light will fling your heart through space. and you will be grace, and you will be grace.

beauty girl, happy wedding day.

and city unfolding under my feet like ashen white pine-breath and honey-lipped oxygen air. clean city, old city, fresh city, new city, aware city. bold, art-filled, humming with its own tune. minneapolis has nothing to prove and yet bubbles with a culture 5 miles wide and 10,000 lakes deep. under-rated city of air and water and flickering lights and dazzling peace. brave city/keeps ticking on, keeps making beautiful things in the middle of the country/does not care if the rest of the world looks or not/ gathers up a fist-full of native dirt, washes it clean in the mississippi river, grits new streets through its mouth, pummels up fresh opportunity – lets the middle-class silt like nuggets of gold on top of the strain. lets the shadow soil filter, filter. lets minnesota become a new name, a state drenched in something free and present and still alive. minneapolis is alive, it fills to its own brim with its own sense of identity – which is not pursed like lips, definitive and narrow, it is its own creature howling, moving, tunneling. it is a brave pair of cities alive with themselves, their own unfinished project.

/and aren’t we always our own unfinished project?

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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