Singed, But Singing

We’ve walked through flames of failure, futility, and love gone wrong. We’ve had our psyches bullied, burned, and berated. Doubt’s dogs have mauled our most cherished dreams. We’ve been the ghost stories for the skeletons in our closets. We’ve prayed for light, but only received burning sticks of dynamite. Earthquakes and hurricanes have shaken us. Bureaucracy continually threatens to break us. We’ve copped a feel off miracles, but have been screwed by madness. We’ve been haunted by the past, and left hollow when imagining a better tomorrow. Still, we emerge from the flames singed, but singing. We are the melodies that refuse to live quietly.


The New Normal

Our ailing world needs massive amounts of blood transfusions, therapy, yoga, acupuncture, and protein shakes to get to a place where we can address one another without the threat of death and annihilation. The weather in our heads: a ceaseless Category 5 hurricane leveling reason to rubble. Gets more difficult to hear the tranquil music of the spheres when virtuoso musicians on the black keys of peace are rendered mute or, at best, dismissed as nonsensical noise by the powers that bleed. Those powers: counterfeit polyannas with blood types of false-positive. They shackle us to shattered fictions giving birth to a perverse sense of justice where the lie is celebrated as the new normal. Where the knife they’ve just plunged into your back is their way of saying hello.

The Setting Sun

The setting sun wants to find a cure for all that ails the world. It flirts with tombstones to raise the dead. The setting sun is tired of being a noose for day’s end. It’s a thousand pounds of sorrow in a size five shine. The setting sun is tired of all the poems and songs written about it. It just wants to be left alone in a sea of stars. The setting sun asks if it can borrow fifty bucks for a ticket outta town. Wants to trade its miracles for a few moments of peace. The setting sun sinks so low. The setting sun sinks so low. Looks like it’s on its knees praying for the moon.

Your Face Maps My Heart’s Most Desired Destinations

Your eyes, the light guiding me to sunrise. Your smile, the true north leading me faithfully forward. Your cheeks, dimpled speed bumps preventing me from rushing headlong into dark. Just one look from you and I know grace is my co-pilot. Ghosts that once roamed the open road are now mile markers leading me toward serenity. So sublime, your eyes, your cheeks, your smile. Your face maps my heart’s most desired destinations.

At the Gym Beyond Good and Evil Intentions

At the gym beyond good and evil tendencies, Nietzsche is the spotter. He demands you benchpress the weight of the world. Says eternity is now, so stop worrying whether or not you’ll lose five pounds by tomorrow. Or how when boxing demons, don’t become your own bruised monster. He claims when the punching bag is still, that’s when the fighting man attacks himself. Asserts that if you don’t know how to chill out, then don’t linger in the heated sauna of argument. Or how one quickly sheds the weight of arrogance when standing amongst the deserving people not admiring themselves in the mirror. Maintains that a thought or possibility can shatter one more than a hardass pilates class. Or how, ultimately, one more loves one’s desires for tight abs than the tight abs that are desired. When he’s done with you, Nietzsche wipes away your sweat with his bushy mustache. Says no absolute truths are waiting for you at the juice bar.


At various crossroads of our lives: something lost, something gained. A halo earned, love in flames. Should we lock ourselves away, fearing nine months from now calamity will birth another tragedy? Or should we run wildly through the streets, convinced we can outlast the next hurricane of hate? At the crossroads where flesh and blood meet breath, we do our best to stand strong where X marks benevolence. We strive to remove all roadblocks separating us from tranquility. Here’s to oblivion fading in the rearview mirror as we drive off into the sunset. Here’s to putting the joy back into joyriding.

A Strange Rain

Down on the broken boulevard people sell their swan songs to the dogs. People hold bags of gold in one hand, their death certificates in the other. Voices sound like fairy tales that have been pistol-whipped, guilt-tripped, stripped of all good fortune and told in reverse. Down on the broken boulevard buildings cave in on themselves like flimsy alibis. People rain from the sky. No umbrellas can protect you from such weather. Some days break loose from the sun, swing out on long and lonely arcs into darkness. Some days are known for waving farewell to joy. Some days people rain from the sky.

Baby, Oh Baby

Baby, oh baby, your bibble-babbling, rabble-rousing, bright & bouncing laughjazz makes me weak in the knees when it trumpets a love supreme. Drums away slum-hearted doldrums. Sings fatty calamities down to the raw-boned wonder of home sweet home. Baby, oh baby, your sassy riffs of gigglegiddy rain down on me like confetti; a swirling, whirling adoration parade going on for days. Baby, oh baby, whenever I see you, feels like I done died and gone to heaven, resurrected in the twinkle of your eyes. No ghosts, no goblins. Just a fresh crop of happily-ever-afters whenever you look at me, and say: “Dada!”

Unhappy Hour

Ran into the moon last night at unhappy hour. She was chugging shot after shot of bad-luck rot gut. Had eyes as sad as cut brake lines. Was listening to the band play floods & hurricanes. Said all the world wants to do these days is rain on everyone’s parade. Ain’t no more prize at the bottom of bliss’s cereal box. Can’t turn the key in your heart’s ignition and have it start the first time. Sad moon took a drag off a tombstone, exhaled a few ghosts. She polished her shine just enough to attract the howls of a few wild dogs. Then she said that, these days, courting disaster is like the new Ashley Madison. Whether you like it or not, everybody’s doing at least a little bit of it on the side.