Fill your jukebox heart with songs that make the living and deceased dance all night. When death swoops in with its cold and lonely tombstone tools, know it can’t break into love. So have it playing loud. Allow your love to be more wonder then war. A mirror of highest intentions. A promise of sweet destination, not grim destruction.
Take me down to where the jukeboxes wear brass knuckles, howl like wild dogs, and play our favorite songs again and again. The place where hatemongers and rustsongers have grown extinct. Where no gun alive ever rests in our palms, or writes our psalms. Take me to the place where the wind steals the suicide note from the lonely man’s hand and offers him a ticket to lighter, freer days. The place where our hearts refuse to lick the bootblack of dread. Where love is measured in actions, not words. The place where hope offers us enough light to write by.
Love whose voice is a river flowing towards sea, whose collarbone is a railroad carved out of ivory, whose pulse is a drum in shaman season. Love whose hair is sewn into the wingspan of grace, whose belly wild dogs recognize as the moon, whose imagination has survived a baptism of floods and sings the sunrise in perfect pitch. Love whose mouth of echoes always sings back our way, whose eyes of honeysuckle midwives birth pure sweetness, whose hands dig down deep into the underworld where we waltz amidst the wreckage and the dead.
Early morning birds create Jackson Pollock mad splatters of melody on the canvas of quiet air. With their vibrant voices come a sky bluer than blues, a new day painted with rhythms that stick to the ribs when all else leaves one hungry and searching for more. When the voice bone is connected to the breath bone is connected to the soul bone, morning birds banish all cages. No excess feathers weigh them down. The song alone is their flight into the alive.
The astronaut floats through space, untethered In an abundant field of absolute bright. Reach for the hand of the astronaut. Together, determine which points of light can be pinned to the lapel, or are forever lost. Folded within our world are so many more worlds, some made of nothing and silence, others made of things as precious as oxygen and love. Wrapped within our words are so many more words. Some so easy to express, others that leave us wondering how to describe this untethered floating, the occasional yearning for a new North Star.
The astronaut floats through space, untethered In an abundant field of absolute bright. Reach for the hand of the astronaut. Together, determine which points of light can be pinned to the lapel, or are forever lost to us. Folded within our world are so many more worlds, some made of nothing and silence, others made of things precious as oxygen and love. Wrapped within our words are so many more words. Some so easy to express, others that leave us wondering how to describe this untethered floating, the occasional yearning for a new North Star.
Every new day is the song to which we are connected. A song more fire than the sun’s flames. A melody sweeter than rose petals of hellos. Maybe it is a song whose echoes we’ve heard before. Or perhaps it is a song whose chorus catches us by surprise, like rain inside the body when we imagined the heart was cloudless. Should this song ever travel out of earshot, it doesn’t mean a new day won’t arrive. Whisper just a simple melody into cupped palms; song enough to share, song enough to shine.
The rage clock’s hands strangle silence. The geometry of love reveals its intricacies. A bar brawl of the heart is far better than a bullet in the brain. Reading by the light of one’s bright eyes is far better than being blind to the truth. Today’s regrets bang against tomorrow’s door, seeking to come clean. Today’s words left unpurchased are perhaps the ones tomorrow can afford. The perfection of humans—our imperfections. A lifetime to right our wrongs. A lifetime to write our songs.
It is not enough to write our feelings down on paper. Write them on flesh. Better yet, go deeper. Scribe them on bones, commit them to memory, to bloodflow. Give those feelings a home on the tongue, in the heart and soul. So that everything that is said and done comes from the beginning and end of everything inside us. So that all those feelings can lead to something outside us, true and pure; meaning even blindfolded, we can find one another in good times or bad. Meaning when we catch sunlight in our hands, we choose to caress it, not crush it.
I wanna create a monument called BookBinge—a megalithic circle of books set firm within earthworks, towering skyward like Stonehenge. There’ll be poetry, fiction, memoirs, graphic novels, and more. You can touch the books, read them, discuss them fervently with friends, breathe in their history. Or you can remain silent within the center of the monument’s immensity and watch the seasons pass. Time will slow down and stand by your side. Together, you will grow wiser, not older.