If I were to ever sport a wig I'd want a huge shock of Einstein's e=mc 2 hair. Or maybe a wig that's a luscious rush of LA sunsets; one so bright it camouflages with my baby's smile. A wig that's an equal opportunity accepter of other wigs. A new and improved self-driving wig. One that can walk on water, should I ever find myself going under. Don't want no terrorist or bomb-scare hair, no swastika or white sheet for a wig. Don't wanna be weighed down by all that hate. I want a wig jampacked with plenty of James Brown get-down. Insatiable and sensational. Full of Jheri curls, not gerrymandering. A wig filled with dreaming and believing, bopping and popping, full out rockin' atop my noggin.
Baby maraca shakes the blues away. Transforms guillotines to trampolines, jump & shout & sway. Baby maraca sings bliss-beats that transcend. Makes apocalypse skip & flip, live love 'till the very end.
She died on the mirror highway. Beauty was a gun, she said, that never was her friend. She died on the mirror highway, a crow orchestra singing over her bones. She died on the mirror highway, pockets empty of holiness or home. Beauty was a gun, she said, that shoulda been her friend. Blow her mind out in the bang-bang boogie light. She died on the mirror highway, listen to her sweet ghost moan. Says to look for her in the lost-soul phonebook, where all the unlisted go.
The luck is finding a lottery ticket granting you millions in sanity and serenity. The grace is never being disinherited by breath, or having your path crossed by a convention of black cats. The equanimity is dancing with machine guns and guillotines, and still coming out alive; a good head on your shoulders, and a few new moves to one day use when you’re in a pinch. The magic is having all your scars and sorrows unsickened and unpunished, the mind’s madhouse converted into a playground. The music of it all is transforming adversity into symphony, cruelty into consonance, and bombshatter blues into the sweet beat of a jukebox heart.
Wondrous sunrise, generous donor of auspicious & flaming DNA, inject your new-day euphoria into the bloodstream of this toxic world. Transform warring speech into a heaven-seared dialect. Hickey hate with your serenity-lipsticked bite marks. For those who’ve been consigned to overcast oblivion, illuminate their mental state, luster & exhilarate their determination’s filibuster. Fistbump us with your fat golden knuckles. Bruise us with beauty. Shine a whole lotta love into our lives.
My kissable cuddle muffin / My babynape cupcake / My chunky-thighed cherry pie / My tiny-fingered lady finger / My moon-eyed angel delight / My full-cheeked molten chocolate cake / My bubbly babbling bonbon / Baby, oh, baby / Give me some more of your love s’more.
So amazing that silence continues to follow its code of quiet. That our two legs haven’t walked out from beneath us to seek their own repose on sunny beaches. So mindblowing that our pets have stayed so faithfully by our sides, refusing to walk off with all our money and silver. That kindness can kindle kisses into kinetically creative cancan dancers cavorting carefree across our meaty carcasses. So fantastic that our blood doesn’t experience road rage while racing through our bodies. That our hand-me-down history can still find moments of time for us to wear that are comfortable, carefree, and compliment the shape of our well-being. So miraculous that the currency of mercy is still accepted at many banks of the heart.
All of us have felt love, or something like it, move through us. Maybe it’s been a feathery feeling like crows flying from one songed horizon to the next. Or maybe it’s a much bigger feeling, like a luscious and luminous 100 ft. WOW transforming our backbones into Broadway. Or maybe it’s more subtle, like how long, leggy shadows slowly cross golden patches of sunlight late in the day. Or maybe it’s like how soft rains slip through our fingers and off our tongues when we’re trying to count all the drops; knowing we’ll never get them all, but washed clean by what comes our way.
Mother Nature’s got a barcode tattooed on her inner thigh. Happened one night when she was sleeping off a drunk of lush waterfalls and greenery. Government meanies crept in, stoked up the money gun, got to work selling off pieces of the sweet lady. When she awoke, she flipped her wig with rising sea levels, tidal waves, declining sea ice. Some people claim climate change isn’t real, and all news is fake. Let ’em go face to face with Mother Nature, I say. Her heat-trappin’ CO2 brutes mean business. Not the business of selling off nature. More like the business of, Do you want your tombstone in marble or granite?
The monk telephone sits in silence. The rude neighbor telephone rings when you’re trying to sleep. With the tombstone telephone, you don’t hear it till you’re dead and gone. With the Trump telephone, you can’t trust anything it says at all. The Johnny Cash telephone has a ring of fire. The guillotine telephone rings your head off. The hangover telephone doesn’t ring, it moans. The coitus interruptus telephone doesn’t allow you to hang on, it just leaves you hanging. The Fourth of July telephone doesn’t seem to offer as much freedom as it used to.