The Number On Your Wrist

Gather leaves and clouds to make a resting place for worries. Rub birdsong on scars. Mix absolute awe and hula hoop hip undulations to create full mind and body good vibrations. Offer compassion as food for the yowling mouths of the disenfranchised. Break bread with one another instead of one another’s bones. Build well-contained fires to keep heart-feasting wolves at bay. Within the center of that fire’s warmth and glow, count your blessings and truths. Tattoo the number on your wrist. Wear it proudly.

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Side Effects 

Side effects may include bone fractures, hair loss. Unmappable and unconquerable sadness. The once honeyed milk of hope may leave a gunmetal taste in your mouth. Pillow talk may turn toxic. Kisses, no matter how faithfully offered, may be slapped with guilty verdicts. Your self-esteem may experience a leaky discharge. Other side effects can include new holidays created in your name. Civil War re-enactors stripping off blues and grays, hosting naked swim parties in your honor. Atom bombs blowing off steam by singing you Bach lullabies. You may also experience an increased sexual appetite. Libido lickable as a lollipop. Alternative facts disentangling into vast populations of natural-hued truths. You may also experience seizures, strokes, problems with memory attention. Which may cause you to remember none of this come morning.

Vast Utopias of Free Moments 

I am building something to share with you: time. Vast utopias of free moments constructed between the ticking of each minute. Spiraling dimensions of freedom whose hallways are decorated with glittering infinitude. No clock hands to hold us to our griefs and burdens. No special days stolen away to fulfill meaningless obligations. Here, we share in an endless supply of hours to build our worth and interests. Trade years of stress for quality breaths in the present moment. When I say I have something to share with you, do not consider our wishes too combustible for possibility, or assume our dreams have already burned to ash. Do not believe all to be lost with the continual tic-tic ticking of the clock. 

For the Fathers

This one goes out to all you fathers: Fathers from Shanghai to Schenectady. Fathers with hearts huger than 20 Texases. Pet fathers, poet fathers, artist and actor fathers. Fathers transforming a child’s internal weather from thunderstorm to sunny. Fathers of all religions, fathers that know how to fix car engines. Big-money fathers, middle and low-income fathers. Coffee-drinking, deep-thinking fathers. Fathers no longer alive, but still existing boldly in hearts & minds. Garden-tending fathers, garment-mending fathers. Fathers more epic than “Stairway to Heaven”. Fathers making homes feel like hymns. Dancing fathers, ditch-digging fathers. Songwriting, word-rhyming fathers. Fathers defying gravity, the way they make you feel like you’re floating on air. Fathers flying straighter than crows, always knowing which way the wind blows. Skateboarding fathers, book-hoarding fathers. Music-loving, non-shoving fathers. Fathers always offering encouraging words. Fathers tearing their hearts to tourniquets to stave off the poison of hurt. 

With Misgivings and Unrest for All

Bullets sing prayers of the bothered, stunned & unholy ghost. Itchy fingers reach for doomsday buttons. Madmen with messiah complexes roam the streets & marbled halls of injustice. Daily chaos & political acrimony chip away at democracy, leave collective trust staggering towards the finish line. I don’t want a world where we must equip ourselves with bulletproof vests & hate-speech thesauruses to protect lives, translate dark thoughts into light. In this land where we’ve become one nation under siege with misgivings & unrest for all, it takes true warriors to think & act differently. Bear love guns, bliss bombs. Explode beauty, color, joy. 

What the Clouds Say

As a child, I lassoed clouds, believing I could hold the sky in place. The shape and hue of days unaltered; hours melding into months, eons. Friends and loved ones never aging. Pets never requiring backyard graves marked by stones, flowers, and wooden crosses. As a child I believed hope alone could feed the masses; keep us strong, safe, well fed. I still try roping clouds from time to time. Some, spooked by their own shadow and weight, float away, or shift into more sinister shapes. Others I’m able to grasp. They offer clues and cues for better days ahead. 

Fuzzy Math

In the twisted equation of our embattled nation, the mathematical expression (read as freedom of expression) always equals zero when calculated by cunning colluders and alternative fact choosers. Forget science and objectivity, evidence and elegance. The square of truth’s hypotenuse doesn’t equal the sum of the square of liars and climate deniers. Equality and consciousness immediately subtracted from the overall value. Hate crimes multiplied ad infinitum. Variables of victory-for-all erased into the algebraic unknown. In this twisted equation of our troubled nation, present babble equals future rubble.

Those 206 Bones

Imagine that all 206 bones in your body are different instruments in the symphony of you. Trombone bones, piccolo bones. Pianissimo bones, rhapsodic bones. Bones seedscattering kabooming blooms of loud & luscious songlove bones. Or maybe you’ve got good omen bones, enjoy the taste of homecooking bones. Bones glowing like a Van Gogh nightlight. Bones doubling as billyclubs to pummel away those blues bones. Open-road bones, home-sweet-home bones. Dream bones, tree bones. Bones that would never hurl a baby from a bridge, or swindle the elderly out of pension checks. Beatific bones. Beat the drum bones. Rock ‘n roll bones. Like a rolling stone bones. But never, ever feeling like a complete unknown bones.

No Collusion in the Making of This Status Update 

There’s been no collusion in the making of this status update. No obstruction of justice. No legal jeopardy. My only loyalty is with you, dear readers. If there ever comes a day when you need a record of what’s transpired between us, this is it; this status update. It contains no lies. No shifting explanations. No one’s under investigation. No expectations of quid pro quo. Everyone’s free to come and go as they please. As for the kind-hearted conversations we’ve shared along the way: ‘Lordy, I hope there are tapes.’

A Day in the Life and Death

When it’s our time to go maybe our lives will end with an orchestral crescendo like the Beatles “A Day in the Life.” Our passing will be filled with sounds of our favorite songs punctuated by automatic scribblings of kisses. Eroticism’s fossils will piece themselves together into heated moans of bliss’s wild beasts. Sweet OMs of meditation, not maditation. Unguns firing endless rounds of fun. Conflagrations of congratulations. Symphonies of singing angels, roaring oceans, passing trains, falling rain. A music of muses amused. Epiphany-popping haikus of truth. Every word a bird of songtacular serenity. Moon thought serving up a soft wild laughter of light. All of it finally resolving into one long, sustaining E chord of mind-blowing, heart-stopping, overwhelmingly beautiful silence…