At the Gym Beyond Good and Evil Intentions

At the gym beyond good and evil tendencies, Nietzsche is the spotter. He demands you benchpress the weight of the world. Says eternity is now, so stop worrying whether or not you’ll lose five pounds by tomorrow. Or how when boxing demons, don’t become your own bruised monster. He claims when the punching bag is still, that’s when the fighting man attacks himself. Asserts that if you don’t know how to chill out, then don’t linger in the heated sauna of argument. Or how one quickly sheds the weight of arrogance when standing amongst the deserving people not admiring themselves in the mirror. Maintains that a thought or possibility can shatter one more than a hardass pilates class. Or how, ultimately, one more loves one’s desires for tight abs than the tight abs that are desired. When he’s done with you, Nietzsche wipes away your sweat with his bushy mustache. Says no absolute truths are waiting for you at the juice bar.

Joyriding

At various crossroads of our lives: something lost, something gained. A halo earned, love in flames. Should we lock ourselves away, fearing nine months from now calamity will birth another tragedy? Or should we run wildly through the streets, convinced we can outlast the next hurricane of hate? At the crossroads where flesh and blood meet breath, we do our best to stand strong where X marks benevolence. We strive to remove all roadblocks separating us from tranquility. Here’s to oblivion fading in the rearview mirror as we drive off into the sunset. Here’s to putting the joy back into joyriding.

A Strange Rain

Down on the broken boulevard people sell their swan songs to the dogs. People hold bags of gold in one hand, their death certificates in the other. Voices sound like fairy tales that have been pistol-whipped, guilt-tripped, stripped of all good fortune and told in reverse. Down on the broken boulevard buildings cave in on themselves like flimsy alibis. People rain from the sky. No umbrellas can protect you from such weather. Some days break loose from the sun, swing out on long and lonely arcs into darkness. Some days are known for waving farewell to joy. Some days people rain from the sky.

Baby, Oh Baby

Baby, oh baby, your bibble-babbling, rabble-rousing, bright & bouncing laughjazz makes me weak in the knees when it trumpets a love supreme. Drums away slum-hearted doldrums. Sings fatty calamities down to the raw-boned wonder of home sweet home. Baby, oh baby, your sassy riffs of gigglegiddy rain down on me like confetti; a swirling, whirling adoration parade going on for days. Baby, oh baby, whenever I see you, feels like I done died and gone to heaven, resurrected in the twinkle of your eyes. No ghosts, no goblins. Just a fresh crop of happily-ever-afters whenever you look at me, and say: “Dada!”

Unhappy Hour

Ran into the moon last night at unhappy hour. She was chugging shot after shot of bad-luck rot gut. Had eyes as sad as cut brake lines. Was listening to the band play floods & hurricanes. Said all the world wants to do these days is rain on everyone’s parade. Ain’t no more prize at the bottom of bliss’s cereal box. Can’t turn the key in your heart’s ignition and have it start the first time. Sad moon took a drag off a tombstone, exhaled a few ghosts. She polished her shine just enough to attract the howls of a few wild dogs. Then she said that, these days, courting disaster is like the new Ashley Madison. Whether you like it or not, everybody’s doing at least a little bit of it on the side.

This One’s For the Dreamers

DACA Dreamers, you mad, beautiful schemers. If I were President, there’d be no question regarding your residence. You are true USA – Ultra Savory & Amazing. You help to make this country great. So sad to see the hate brigades spell our racially diverse nation’s name with such an ugly stutter – AmeriKKKa. DACA Dreamers, you mad, beautiful schemers. No Trump dumping allowed on your loud & clear accomplishments. No letting Homeland Security become a Department of Total Insanity when it comes to protecting your rights. Times like these, must feel like the red, white & blue has beaten your freedoms black & blue. So hard not to cry when Mother Liberty rusts before our eyes. So sad to see the one that claims to have a “big heart” is the first one ready to break your hearts. DACA Dreamers, you mad, beautiful schemers. Don’t give up the fight. Dream the dream that unites.

Inventions of Past Generations

Workers with calloused hands, workers with determined hearts. Earthstitched we are, woven into a fabric of bounty and boldness. Teachers, doctors, soldiers and farmers. Sunstruck dreams jitterbug on our tongues while backs ache from a hard day’s labor. Bureaucrats offer us saccharine promises, then dump tombloads of hopelessness at our doorsteps. Nurses, musicians, mechanics and clerks. We rise above the rubble to breathe again, to be again. Renegades for so much more than our daily wages. We strive to serve, to heal, to fix, to scheme. Poets, painters, writers and dancers. We men and women are inventions of past generations of men and women. That is why we love, we fight. We laugh, we cry. Our most wonderful invention of all: our ability to unite.

After All That

Love placed in cuffs, then state custody. Photographed, fingerprinted. Outfitted with prison garb. Thrown in a cell with mug-shotted war mongers and drooling dogs of destruction. Love given no shank to protect its grace, no weights to bulk up its muscles. Forced to eat rat-infested misery. No good books to read. Not even a court-appointed lawyer to fight for its innocence. Its silky syntax locked in a sleeper hold, thrown into solitary confinement. Dirty fingers in every orifice. No pardon from the oval office. All that, and love still rises above it all–liberation from haters’ recriminations.