Life’s Last Jukeboxes

So many roads lead to struggling, stinging, sinking still deeper into forever dark places. One day after another, a blindfold over the eyes while time’s firing squad takes aim at our sense of calm. Highway hypnosis grabs hold of us as truth and dignity slip away in the rearview mirror. As we approach calamity’s city limits, listen to the hungry wolves wail, “Safety.” Listen to the floating clouds whisper, “Gravity.” In a world where little is what it claims to be, true love is one of life‘s last jukeboxes. Hear my song: Baby, hold these cold hands to feel my warm and woolly heart.

Advertisements

The Monsters Amongst Us

These days it’s hard to find two sticks of reason to rub together to spark fires of positive change. Hard to take the air we breathe as serenity when every day feels like a disaster movie. Cloaked in a fog of war and wiley words, resilient strains of untruth sleuth across borders of benevolence, poison the mainstream with continual cruelties and confusions. A toxic parlance more concerned with washing minds instead of washing the blood of wrongdoing from anyone’s hands. Meanwhile, the rest of us look on, wondering how we can thrive and survive in the face of such atrocities. Wondering where the hell we went wrong to create such monsters roaming amongst us.

Something About My Bombs

If any bombs are to be dropped, let them be love bombs, equality bombs. Book bombs, beauty bombs. Buddha bombs filled with great aplomb bombs. Bombs that even take a knee in the fight for racial justice bombs. Don’t wanna hear any moody, bluesy doomsday bombs. Just wanna feel the reverberations of peace and liberation bombs. Bombs that boom one nation under truth. Bombs that say please and thank you. Bombs that put rational thinking before bombastic Twittering. Bombs that don’t wear apocalypse lipstick to dinner parties. I want libidinal bombs. Bump-humping kinky frequencies of sexual healing bombs. Flirty bombs. Wordy bombs. Bombs crooning such beautiful tunes even the bombest of songs will swoon.

Counting the Mad

This one breathes lies when the air is filled with truth. This one plants ghosts when the earth yearns to bear fruit. This one steals flowers from tranquility’s hands. This one builds walls in wide-open spaces. This one babbles on in a self-made Babylon. This one batters beauty. This one silences the prayer within a prayer within a prayer. This one plays games whose only reward is blood. This one longs to shackle us in chains. This one wants to make us doormats for his goose-stepping ways. This one dreams himself a gun to kill those not like him. Another day of counting the mad to understand how to move more calmly through the world.

Singed, But Singing

We’ve walked through flames of failure, futility, and love gone wrong. We’ve had our psyches bullied, burned, and berated. Doubt’s dogs have mauled our most cherished dreams. We’ve been the ghost stories for the skeletons in our closets. We’ve prayed for light, but only received burning sticks of dynamite. Earthquakes and hurricanes have shaken us. Bureaucracy continually threatens to break us. We’ve copped a feel off miracles, but have been screwed by madness. We’ve been haunted by the past, and left hollow when imagining a better tomorrow. Still, we emerge from the flames singed, but singing. We are the melodies that refuse to live quietly.

The New Normal

Our ailing world needs massive amounts of blood transfusions, therapy, yoga, acupuncture, and protein shakes to get to a place where we can address one another without the threat of death and annihilation. The weather in our heads: a ceaseless Category 5 hurricane leveling reason to rubble. Gets more difficult to hear the tranquil music of the spheres when virtuoso musicians on the black keys of peace are rendered mute or, at best, dismissed as nonsensical noise by the powers that bleed. Those powers: counterfeit polyannas with blood types of false-positive. They shackle us to shattered fictions giving birth to a perverse sense of justice where the lie is celebrated as the new normal. Where the knife they’ve just plunged into your back is their way of saying hello.

The Setting Sun

The setting sun wants to find a cure for all that ails the world. It flirts with tombstones to raise the dead. The setting sun is tired of being a noose for day’s end. It’s a thousand pounds of sorrow in a size five shine. The setting sun is tired of all the poems and songs written about it. It just wants to be left alone in a sea of stars. The setting sun asks if it can borrow fifty bucks for a ticket outta town. Wants to trade its miracles for a few moments of peace. The setting sun sinks so low. The setting sun sinks so low. Looks like it’s on its knees praying for the moon.

Your Face Maps My Heart’s Most Desired Destinations

Your eyes, the light guiding me to sunrise. Your smile, the true north leading me faithfully forward. Your cheeks, dimpled speed bumps preventing me from rushing headlong into dark. Just one look from you and I know grace is my co-pilot. Ghosts that once roamed the open road are now mile markers leading me toward serenity. So sublime, your eyes, your cheeks, your smile. Your face maps my heart’s most desired destinations.