Transform bombs into jukeboxes. Change bombs into proms. Bombs that restore truth, eliminate the blues. Book bombs. Pretty looks bombs. Bombs as bonsai garden masters. Master guardians of children, pets & the elderly. Nature bombs. Naked bombs. Bombs that heal broken hearts & our broken world. Bombs obliterating homelessness, poverty & disease. Murder gone bombs. Bullying & banality gone bombs. Bombs of solidarity & serenity. Bombs that are truly the bomb when it comes to playing the drums. Benevolent bombs. Brahms-listening bombs. Bombs offering health care & college to the masses. Classy bombs exploding into Van Gogh starry nights. Jackson Pollock paint-splattering bombs. Ghandi bombs. I Have a Dream bombs. Bombs radiating love. Bombs radiating only peace.
Month: March 2017
Requiem for a Dream
How I yearn for the old days, when love reigned supreme; when cacophonies of kisses & cuddles would rise from busy city streets like wild-hearted jazz; when it was much easier to keep the faith, our spirits raised to uppercase. These days, we’re continually mauled by rabid soundbites of terrorist attacks & highly poisonous politics. These days, it’s one Judas goat after another leading Lady Liberty to slaughter. These days it feels like we’ve traded oxygen for nitroglycerine. Every day, we gotta work a little harder to rediscover joyful optimism. Start by taking two wheels off the misanthropic tricycle. Turn it into a non-cynical unicycle.
Untitled
How I yearn for the old days, when love reigned supreme; when cacophonies of kisses & cuddles would rise from busy city streets like wild-hearted jazz; when it was much easier to keep the faith, our spirits raised to uppercase. These days, we’re continually mauled by rabid soundbites of terrorist attacks & highly poisonous politics. These days, it’s one Judas goat after another leading Lady Liberty to slaughter. These days it feels like we’ve traded oxygen for nitroglycerine. Every day, we gotta work a little harder to rediscover joyful optimism. Start by taking two wheels off the misanthropic tricycle. Turn it into a non-cynical unicycle.
To-Do List
Print living newspapers on tombstones. Scribe automatic writings across the Sistine Chapel sky. Transform gentle ocean waves into roaring waves of Hello. Dust out any cobwebs in your cathedral of peace. Ring dazzling bells of melodic imagination. Build a wildlife sanctuary in your heart; a massive bookstore in your mind. Be a warrior for art; an outlaw for love. Resist the chokehold of the complacent status quo. Trust inner voice & intuition. Don’t let others ghostwrite your life.
Better Yet
You can spend every hour of the day whispering into the ear of forgotten years gone by. You can play tic-tac-toe with a big-fat-NO. You can join the chorus of bully-throated bruisers sucker-punching sensibility into memes of moronic mendacity. Better yet, write a juicy love letter to the here & now. Gather raging thunderbolts, tame them into bouquets of generous light. Spit-shine 3 AM doldrums into afternoon delight. And every 24 hours, write dawn’s denouement across the blazingly beautiful sky to help solve all of life’s mysteries, and to appease any fears left over from the long, dark night.
The Playlist of Our Lives
The playlist of our lives is a selection of songs full of haunt and heartbreak, joy and jump, boogie and bad moons rising. It’s a group of songs unlocking all the moments in life: those grave-whispered gone days to the dream-winged, love-must-fly days. The playlist of our lives is a sultry soundtrack; a shiny piece of sonic serenity doled out one track at a time. Blues to hip hop, raga to rock. It can be a combat-booted stomp down Revolution Boulevard. Or a frilly-minded skip down Memory Lane. The playlist of our lives is a quadraphonic romp; a cranked-to-ten, big-hearted beat…beat…beat out on the dance floor of our biggest, boldest, living, breathing, being.
What Mother Nature Told Me
Don’t shave your grace with a rusty straight razor. Don’t clip your phrases with over-sharpened shears. Don’t give away the ending until you know the beginning can bear fruit. Best not to book a room in the hotel of hate. Don’t sell yourself short when you’re a piece of the sky. Don’t over-tighten the threads on this machine called Time. Best not to hop into an anthrax taxi, even if the driver offers a free ride. Don’t repaint over any of your fingerprints on this all-too-short human life.
RichRant 