Problem With the Problem

The problem with the problem isn’t always the problem. Rather, it’s making a bigger problem of the problem instead of first seeking a possible solution to a problem that might’ve not been as big a problem as the bigger problem created from the original problem. Which I suppose all boils down to the idea of thinking more positively, which can really be a big problem for those who have an even bigger problem with living on the bright side of life.

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Miss/Communication

We share our mortal time and touch, but our words get spirited away. So many shadows between my lips and yours. A chasm filled with one too many spasms of divergent meaning. Open-ended messages subject to radical redactions and revisions by our miscommunications and the mercurial state of the world. Bitter tongues snipe hate speech while serenity dodges sniper bullets. Will we ever heal this disconnection? Not only send true messages across great distances, but also to the person next to us. Oh, bells of mercy, ring a song in our speech. Our mighty chorus of words, a resounding wave of understanding.

Hairpeace

Think of the words that have fallen from our mouths like heavy stones. Think of the times we’ve allowed our brains to be battlefields for warring emotions. Think of the times we’ve inflicted self harm to bleed out the perfect metaphor to describe our inner struggle. Think of how it takes nine months to bring a life into the world, and only moments to snuff it out. Think of guns, bombs, shackles, and chokeholds. Think of our hair speaking a host of languages, maintaining international order. Atop our heads, a United Nations peace.

Helter Skelter in a Loveless Shelter

True love seems like an outlaw these days; on the run, seeking shelter in a helter-skelter world. Fingerprints, DNA, voice analysis on file with the Department of Unjustice. True love’s picture slapped up in the ghost office, hunted down by hate mongers, deemed AmeriKKKa’s unwanted. So criminal the way true love can sometimes be treated. It ain’t mushy or outta style. Another thing, just ‘cause it may break your heart from time to time don’t make it bad. Just means you can feel.

What of the Moon

No matter how many guns cry murder. No matter how many times we poison the air with ill words and attitudes. No matter how many times Mother Nature, and countless other women, are senselessly raped and defiled. No matter how many times we kick, punch, and jam slugs inside harmony’s jukebox. No matter how many times our leaders openly engage in racism, ignorance, and genocide—the moon still shines above us. Praying we’ll one day learn how to glow brightly in times of darkness.

Do, Done, Did

We do what we do and will always do ‘cause it’s what to do to get the job done. Sure, we know what we do may not always be how our heroes woulda done it, or how their heroes woulda done it. But we do our do, we get the job done, ‘cause we’re tired of being ignored, tired of being mistaken for that doormat on the floor. Tired of waiting for people to do what they said they’d do, shoulda already done. All that we’ve broken our backs desiring, all that we’ve strained our voices defying—all that and more we’re still waiting for. Until that done gets did, we do our do ’til it gets the job done. Then once our do gets did, we go have some fun.

Another Day of Presumed Insanity

America’s slings and arrows more than narrowly missing compassion’s mark. Greedy minds scramble for newly minted corruption while darker forces hack our hearts’ hard drives. Every day, another case of presumed insanity. The stark raving mad grammar of overly hammered truth kickers invades the airwaves. Less about communication, more about dodging incriminating evidence. Every day, held hostage by politicians who’d rather control our bodies and minds than figure out how to stop gun violence, or a madman president holding nuclear codes. Blows my mind how the prospect of a World War III is easy as saying A, B, C. Nevertheless, we do our best to embrace each new day, put our best soul forward. Courage and godspeed, one and all, as we step on the gas. More madness full speed ahead.

A Bad Mamma Jamma in Lowdown Alabama

I’ll be your in through the out door, your up when you’re down. I’ll be your wide-awake dreams in a season of sleep. I’ll be the heat lightning in the storm of your warmth. The bad mamma jamma springing you from the slammer in lowdown Alabama. I’ll be the mockingbird banjo whose sweet song you can never play wrong. Your skyrocket in flight, burning brightly long after afternoon delight. I’ll be your morning egg. Sometimes a little runny, but always sunnyside up.

Seek Them All, and They’ll Say

Seek the bomb. Seek the bullet. Seek the victims of mass shootings & terrorist attacks. Seek the victims of rape & domestic violence. The victims of floods, hurricanes, disease & malnutrition. Seek the man that was murdered because his skin color made him guilty in the court of hate. Seek the cashier that sold still another tiki torch to a white supremacist. Seek the Dreamer wondering where to call home. Seek the empty whiskey bottle & prescription painkillers. Seek the countless graveyards and shattered hearts. Seek them all and they’ll say: Life is a wild, wild beast. If you can tame it, teach it to love.

Migrating Birds

That continual hope for a more harmonious world—it shines from one life to the next. Its reverberations of optimism are an onomatopoetic gesture written and rewritten into the breath of every generation. You can hear it passing from one’s last dying words to a newborn’s first cry. It survives fools, famines, murders, and disasters. Ain’t pieced together with make-believe, or the bones of the naive. Don’t bump and grind with the hurly burly bomb-slop of the outta mind. It can release us from loss, or an Alcatraz of imprisoned thoughts. That continual hope for a more harmonious world—it’s like migrating birds. On a long, steady journey to create a warmer, far more loving environment.