[I spent the little bit of time just
now looking for the word "recap"
abbreviates. I have known
the concept, but couldn't predict
my research would thrust me back
into a topical study of Iraneus' theology
via Wikipedia, where Ehrman, Pagels,
and Brown reign the most conservative
of exegetes.]

… .. … .. … .. … .. … .. …

I was asked to do two weddings this weekend,
[of which the first was filled with wonder, cause
it couldn't have been Espresso] alone. At Midnight
on the way home, it was easily obvious that
some thing was abrew – playing freeway Chess
with the looney-pawn storm-chaser vans.

I got home, little Red Bulls still swimming
in my bloodstream, and transferred the 1,002
photos to the hard drive from my memory
cards. 1:45 am, and I was to arise four later
for the next installment, one of the Reform
Jew type. Morning said, “Awake O Sleeper,
surround with flesh Truth, your birthing capacity.”

[No one told that the Bride asked all to wear
white with the walls, Iconoclasted; my ignorance
dressed me in a hearkening black]. They signed
the Ketubah in the foyer; the Rabbi had a streak
of Wild in her hair. I quietly spread across the frame
cowhide-bleached Kipas, all worn proudly until
in their Porsches on the speedway to Salum,
[Abraham] to pass the Shalom. “Mazal Tov!”
in 1,042 frames of white wine, jazz, and pearls.

When the day reached its end, a fragile old
woman told me the man who’d unceasingly
given me unwanted photography advice
was not just the token protective grandpa. No–
he’d won the Pulitzer Prize in the 40’s for war
photojournalism! I nearly threw up for thinking
such negative things about his naggityness:

“You shooting at 1/1000 kid?” He went on.
“And I don’t mean at f8!” Not that he could hear
my answer, made deaf from the Aircraft Carriers.

[Plus, I was cheating at f1.4.]

This last question resurrected my Daddo; I stood
in Victoria’s model airplane shop, tall as his
arthritic knee, tugging his shorts for balsa. Smells
of a turkey stuffed waft in from Eva’s kitchen.