Time to Fucking Party

There should be rapturous gyrations;
dancing, barefoot and wild
in the streets.
ecstatic vibrations pulsing through every household
confetti pouring out from windows into the sidewalks
thick, deep kisses ; fat, heavy tears
A jubilant sensory overload

Rise!
from your pseudo-leather, saran-wrapped, sanitizer-dipped banality
from your micro-waved, fluorescent-lit, plasticized ennui
wrench from your veins
the lies pumped by a talk show host through a vanilla IV
Forget the platitudes, the small talk, hollow questions
Forget your remote control, your white bread, your apathy
There is a celebration to be had.

Today we will celebrate the war
against the crushing depression
printed in bold face type with an exclamation point
on page one, two, three, four, five, seven, and eight
(page six is the comics
and by god, we will celebrate the way that
no matter what
charlie brown still keeps trying to kick that football)

We're hosting a celebration for
the things that are never celebrated:
for mornings when you wake up
and, for once, your first thought isn't crawling back into bed
for mornings when your sheets feel extra cool and crisp
and the light spills over your windowsill at an atypical
and startling angle
that illuminates your curtains with a warm yellow light
pours across your ceiling in beams and strips
glitters off of the empty bottles lining the sill
that by noon will look depressing.

A celebration for silent communications with strangers,
unspoken conversations over a shared experience
like that time you dropped your entire bag of trailmix
into the subway rail tracks
and the guy across the way saw
your eyes met
and he gave you a look that was both empathetic and amused
and you both laughed

A celebration for the way a whisper tickles your ear a little
for unexpected hugs and catching people off guard

for the way your stomach drops when you go too high on the swing
and the bubbly nervous excitement when you kiss someone for the first time
and how these are essentially the same feeling

Celebrate your body
it is an incredible and radiant machines
celebrate your contours, the way your muscles move so fluidly
the soft skin behind your ear, that single curl on the nape of your neck
your smooth pink nail beds, the sloping arch of your foot
the elegance of your spine, the neatness of your shoulder blades
you are fucking beautiful.

Celebrate the lyricism of your own name
and the bizarre sensation of saying it to yourself

Celebrate falling asleep listening to someone's heart beat
good-luck pennies and winding staircases,
fresh-cut grass and thunder storms
dandelions when they are fluffy and white
sliding on wood floors in socks and the screwed up faces babies make

Just count the little things that get you through the endless parade of mondays,
because I desperately want to know
What will you celebrate for?