There is still time to live, time to love. Dance, dream beyond the vast beast-drone of nowhere good. Raise voices, raise consciousness to serve as wise bombs during these ongoing wars: wars of the spirit, wars on the battlefields, wars in once safe spaces. Machine minds will continue their corrosive turnings of cruelty. Thuggish politicians will continue to pummel at our resolve. Still, our hearts won’t become brass knuckles. Our tongues won’t be forged into coffin nails. No time to slip into defeat and amnesia. No time to lay heads down on tombstone pillows.
Evening unfolds like a $20 bill found jammed deep inside a pants pocket. Moon, a silver dollar held loosely in midnight’s cool fist. All the night stars: glittering coins scattered about the feet of a billions-year-old galaxy busking at the corner of black hole and heaven. Come morning, a third-rail song to shock the day awake. Streets are teeming with sorrows, salvations, saints, and sin. People trading sex, cash, whiskey, and good deeds; all in the hopes of claiming a second chance. To get this day right, to share in the riches of the sun’s roaming gold.
An extremely poignant and well-written article from Rich Larson concerning the death of Chris Cornell…
With hush money he builds his empire. With ground-up immigrant bones, and the blood and sweat of the disadvantaged, he creates glue to build the greed-mortared walls bearing his name. Disaster and tyranny are his mistresses. Ego, contempt, and envy: his holy trinity. Every day we walk in the shadow of his walled thoughts, his walled actions. So vast the distances between his tongue and the truth. No wonder people can’t stop talking about him. No wonder his wife refuses to hold his tiny hand.
Be your own symphony; a one-person band boomcrashing with absolute delight. Be your own pet. A heads-up penny. A superman, a superwoman, a superhighway clear of crosstown traffic. Be a crescendo, a climax, an abstract painting of perfect clarity. A bird-friendly scarecrow moved by the winds of good fortune. Be an unbroken mirror, a complex puzzle that puts itself together in the dark. Be right as rain, high as noon, the one always falling up. Be an unlying lion rising with the most honorable roar. A gorgeously blooming garden with a never-wilting smile. Be a satellite of love, a gazillion gigabytes of giggling bright. A shining star, an undwarfed planet in humanity’s galaxy. Be the light, the dark, and everything in between. The newspaper leading with a promising headline. Be the walls that surround you, then knock them down. Be the book into which you write meaning, daily offerings of heart and soul; do it until there’s no more to write, then write more.
It’s the big and little things getting us every day: Murder, robbery, corruption. An insane president with an ingrown toenail for a brain. Termites on steroids overrunning the streets. Cancer, the Middle East crisis, high gas prices, and expired drivers licenses. Guns, drugs, hanging ropes. Suicides affecting so many more than just the person pulling the trigger or swallowing the pills. Open graves looking like open invitations to get some sleep. Taxes, terrorism. Flat tires, busted shoe laces. Mattresses like cinderblocks, black cats continually crossing our paths. So many things broken: broken hearts, broken marriages, broken mirrors, broken treaties. The front porch light is out. No hall light, bedroom light, or streetlights. Ah, but wait…there’s still some hope for our inner light.
All these political earthquakes got our collective psyche’s Richter scale going off the charts. It’s one bungle after another in the White House jungle. Helter-skelter in the president’s fallout shelter. Seems America’s piano is tuned to upheaval. Too hard to follow when the song consistently shifts from Russian to Korean to gibberish. Those poor piano keys can barely hold on to hands trying to compose a saner, steadier melody. Better happen fast, or we may wind up singing the forever blues on the stink pile of extinction. Stuck with Trump’s orange hair as the new frozen sun in a nuclear winter blunderland.
Love is a city filled with the healthy & sick, slick boulevards & foul sewers, saints, sinners & the absolutely mad. Love is a gallows that trades killing for kissing. A roadside hotel where the bed’s actually clean. Love is a songbird holding perfect pitch during a perfect storm. It’s a cool glass of water in Dante’s inferno. A stroll in the park & a highway to hell. Love is a flower parade, a jackhammer hangover. It’s the pen with just enough ink to endorse that million-dollar check written to your unwavering faith in the crazy unknown.
This is a story told in reverse; from fascist to fascist, lie to lie, from Trump ‘s manufactured crises to Hitler’s Reichstag fire. This is a story told in reverse; where smokescreens and plutocratic collusion are so thick we’ll never witness death’s hand reaching for us until it’s too late. This is a story written with our blood, and the big money of those who’ve vivisected democracy. This is a story where we need to flip the script, rewrite our lives. Don’t let evil have the last word.
Up late. Late notice. Don’t pay the rent late. ‘Missed the boat’ and ‘In a bind’ are both synonyms for late. Late bloomer. Late-filing penalties. The pros and cons of dating later in life. Bill me later. 28 Days Later. Coffee so hot you’ll wait to drink it later. Late breakfast, early lunch. Don’t be late for dinner, or we’ll start without you. Some people arrive late to parties to be fashionably on time. The late show. Late Night With Stephen Colbert. Later…With Jools Holland. All the reasons why your plane may be late. Funny how by simply adding -est changes something that’s late to ‘the latest’. It’s never too late to know how soon it’ll be too late. Never wait to love yourself too late. It’s never too late to partake in a feast of second chances.