the leak of lack and food of flood;
after breath, soil, myth from mud, and pitiless creation;
after ocean swell and drought sorrow; fog and fire, feather and forgiveness;
after collision and embrace, boulder and burning;
after a dog’s life and the cat’s meow, stanzas of raven song and alphabet honey,
then came a silent evening sliding into fretboard morning.
its tight grip lessens, its barrel backbone hollows to a hum.
Friction decreases bullet diction.
Thumb rubs increase circulation of meditative vibrations.
Effleurage eliminates trigger stress.
Petrissage digs down deep into muscles of cocked-back hammer,
shakes away anger’s rough muscles,
rhythmatizes to alive.
Along Hollywood freeways, trouble gardens of all-night rumblers, tenements of toothless soothsayers whose mumbled predictions are mistaken for bus directions.
Down-and-out angels work double shifts at the feather factory to earn new wings.
In alleyways along Vine, bruised and nameless hands grapple with scraps of metal and broken glass, determined to transform them into a rib of sacrifice that can build a saintly gesture.
Unemployed actors work on movie backlots, building awe-inspiring technicolor daybreaks.
Come evening, everyone gathers around a Venice Beach bonfire to sing blues, ballads, and their finest work songs.
One sweet voice rises above the rest. It’s just a whisper away from becoming a wishbone.
As a kid, I drank water from the tap or garden hose.
No Evian water. No highly filtered water. Just tapwater.
And if my family didn’t put the toilet lid down after each use, my dog would slurp water from the porcelain bowl.
All of us survived just fine.
These days, some waters contain arsenic, nitrates, and other highly toxic chemicals.
So I drink filtered water. Maybe even a bottle of Smart Water from time to time.
As for my plants, I feed them filtered water.
Scientists say because of its scarcity, clean drinking water is more precious than gold.
When it’s our time to go, I hope my loved ones and I are well hydrated and death has plenty of drinking water available.
I hope that whatever dog I have, when it’s his time to go, he has the good sense to know he can drink from his own bowl and not the toilet.
Speaking of which, are there even any toilets in heaven?
Ask the trapeze artist with the bad back, the antique typewriter digging a Q-tip in its ear.
Query the blackbird flying backwards, the gun that traded in its license to kill for a library card.
Question the angry poet and Zen Buddhist, the pop melody stuck in your head and phone ringing at 3 AM.
Interrogate Chopin’s ghost. The barely read hotel bible, the ashes of the dead scattered over the sea. The unscrubbed bathtub, the dog that barks Mozart, the underpaid teacher and overworked defense lawyer.
Survey them all and they’ll say:
“For the sake of your wellbeing, don’t conduct shady business dealings in New York City.“
bleeds into another war where everyone bleeds a little more than the war before.
What happens to a war deferred? Does it sugar sweet or heavy love then run?
Maybe it just dreams like the sun.
Even the best of days can sometimes be partly cloudy with a chance of funerals.
Even the worst of days can give birth to moments of true magnificence.
The dead dance in our hearts alongside our dreams.
The sky may have aged since we last saw one another but at least it’s maintained its color.
In those days, the world was turned upside down;
whatever wasn’t stapled down by faith—tears, flat tires, unanswered letters—fell at our feet.
We ran through the evening streets, not so much out of wildness, but a desire to dodge the crush of any misfortunes that smelled our fear a lifetime away.
With each metamorphosis of midnight into morning, we’d empty our pockets of fog, old train tickets, and overplayed jukebox songs to get a fresh perspective on life.
It’s a rough kinship, feeling at home with those brief moments granting you absolute joy and clarity.
Some embrace the experience; others wear it like a rough second skin, a strange counterclockwise devotion.
I miss those who felt like a stranger in their shoes.
The ghost-stringed bass lays down a beat not so much haunted as holy, so remembered is the song of those no longer with us.
Love can be rumble; love can be feather-footed or tumble jumble.
Love is mojo holy, a radio oasis, a dance floor float along.
Sweet as the starting whistle at the honey factory.
Love is one hand holding another—something spoken, something unspoken.
A sweet note scribed on a Post-It and left with someone’s lunch or morning coffee.
Love is a bad tattoo removed, an easy-to-follow map of the body, a bitter, broken toy reassembled into technicolor sweet.
Love is an ocean of devotion with a watermark of wow.
It’s the wool unpulled from the eyes.
Love is good fortune, timing, a twist of fate, a turn of phrase, a potion, a notion,
a motion where I am the lock, and you are the key.
Someone will ghost you in plain sight.
Someone with the middle name of chaos will offer you its chipped tooth as an insobriety chip.
Someone will dress their madness in drag and claim it’s the lover for whom you’ve always been waiting.
Someone will drag you down into dark waters while someone else will sprinkle you with holy water.
That special someone who’ll remain close to you.
Will listen to all your secrets on the other side of that small window in your heart’s confessional.
The someone who’ll diamond your sad eyes.
Uplift the melodies on your gravity‘s piano.
That special someone who’ll come into your life, feel so close.
Who’ll tell you they still have all the souvenirs from when you first met one another in a past lifetime.
RichRant 