When I said it was a sunny day, what I meant to say was, it’s raining frogs. When I said it was quiet outside, what I meant to say was, isn’t that the sound of Nero’s fiddle? When I said, well, people are entitled to their opinions, what I meant to say was, in the Dictionary of Idiots I bet their names are the first ones mentioned. When I said everything will be OK, what I meant to say was, it looks like history is practicing its blindfolded, knife-throwing act again. When I said I do my best to look on the bright side of life, what I meant to say was, there are many times when my inner child should be named Dostoyevsky.
There’ll be days when politics will get you down. When climate change will frazzle you. When your job will undazzle you. Days when you keep rolling snake eyes on the metaphysical dice. When sinister and shadowy beings will lurk through the alleyways of your unconscious thoughts. When family, friends, and pets won’t even recognize you. When you swear you can feel the Grim Reaper’s cold breath on the back of your neck. But even if it feels like your days are weighed down by coffins, know the heaviness will lift. Don’t build a permanent graveyard in your heart.
What will she say about Democracy’s broken windows and battered walls? What will she say of its fashion choices; black, like every day was its own execution? Four wars and seven fears ago our abhorred gorefathers brought forth a declaration proclaiming the decimation of compassion, equality, and common sense. Every day, Doomdom knocks at the door of our conscience, wondering how we’ll respond. In times like these, may benevolence serve us well. May our strength of character prove mightier than lies. Silence, too, is an option. When in the face of loathsome acts we do or say nothing, our inactions can be as loud and obliterating as bombs.
Don’t ever let your intuition‘s hearing aid lose battery power. If there’s a screw loose in your head, don’t expect to find an immediate replacement at the hardware store. Even if your conscience is weighed down by coffins, don’t build a permanent graveyard in your heart. If the Grim Reaper comes calling, it’s not enough to say you already gave at the office. When wandering the car graveyard, realize there are no joyrides. Don’t forget to equip yourself with strong shoes and a flexible heart in your pursuit of happiness.
The world in front of us, and the world behind our eyes; so difficult to distinguish and navigate the two when sorrow is our only translator.
A worried man on the street—whose brother was a metaphysical tree trimmer, who knew a tightrope walker that practiced his skills late at night on people‘s clotheslines, whose father delivered mail to a politician with a face like a crumpled-up laundry ticket, who had a car mechanic that moonlighted as an assassin, whose daughter studied interpretive dance with a hummingbird that hovered in the yard of an LP record collector, who knew a Shakespeare appreciator, whose sister was a tea-leaf reader—recently told me: In crazy times like these, don’t forget to breathe.
When you pair today’s ever-volatile political and societal climate with nightmarish climate change, an inverse equation is created that yields opposite but equally devastating results—as temperatures keep getting warmer, some hearts keep getting colder.
When you pair today’s ever-volatile political and social climate with nightmarish climate change, an inverse equation is created that yields opposite but equally nightmarish results—as temperatures keep getting warmer, hearts keep getting colder.
Last night one of my sleeping dreams escaped from my head, slipped out the bedroom window. It eloped with a blackbird on a nearby phone line. The two flew off, got married at the Viva Las Vegas wedding chapel. An Elvis impersonator drove them down the aisle in a pink Caddy. He sang “Can’t Help Falling in Love” at the beginning of the ceremony, “Don’t Be Cruel” at the end. I know all this because this morning I received an airmail postcard from the blackbird. He tells me not to worry, he’s treating my fleeting sleeping dream well. The two of them wish me many more dreams come nightfall.
I’d rather touch myself to death than be touched by death myself. I’d rather be a humble number equal to alive than possess the astounding riches of some zero hero. I’d rather not ride shotgun with a shotgun in a shotgun wedding. I’d rather not be divided and multiplied before becoming just a frictional fraction amongst the multitudes divided. I’d rather have a skin of rain than a brain of stone. I’d rather have a voice that leaves a hickey on history—a sweet swelling of libidinous bruises that reveal the fight for love can sometimes get rough.