Cruel minds of war write Dear John letters to the very air we breathe. Cruel minds of war draw bullseyes on the psyches of the innocent. Cruel minds of war take drag after drag off death’s cigarette. They sing glory to Bomb in the highest. Got wrecking ball bloodlines, sweat stilettos, are cold and empty as a tombstone’s womb. Cruel minds of war finger their rosaries of rage, see the world through hate-colored glasses. They go BOOM when you try to reason with them. Won’t be happy until they’ve covered every man, woman, and child with ghost tattoos, and have inked the world into nonexistence.
If you’re feeling cheesed off, or completely nuts. If you’re in a pickle, a jam, or feeling like your goose is cooked. If you’ve turned into a couch potato ‘cause you’re no longer bringing home the bacon. If you’re crying over too much spilt milk. Or eating crow, or too much humble pie. If you’ve turned into a bad egg or apple. If you’re feeling small potatoes instead of top banana—you should eat some different foods to put you in a better mood.
No need to murder a murder of crows, or sing a song of sing-sing too loud. No need to billy club a dance club, or cruelly stalk a beanstalk. Don’t turn your forearms into firearms, and fire holes into a fire. Don’t work graveyard shift at the graveyard, or rock out with rocks in your pocket. It’ll only make your guitar frets fret.
My little baby’s pj’s gotta life of their own. Their fluffy, bunny-print legs bounce at all hours. They add the sunshine song to morning’s lips. They pepper the hip with the hop grooving over the goodnight moon. Much sooner than I’d like, my little baby will grow outta her pj’s—a bright blast of upbeat jazz straight into womanly dresses. Then my bunny girl will bound outta the door, and leap into the arms of a loving future. Perhaps then, her adult ambitions will shrink her old pj’s into a distant memory. Bless my baby. Bless her pj’s and the life they long to live.
Florida man convicted of strangling common sense. Florida man arrested for building a meth lab in Applebee’s parking lot. Florida man tattoos Bozo on his cheek in order to face his fear of clowns. Florida man apprehended for making sex tape with himself in Taco Bell drive-thru. Florida man sentenced to life for trying to smuggle the apocalypse across state lines. Florida man caught cultivating the world’s smallest crop of marijuana on the head of a pin where angels once danced.
Don’t be dilatory when faced with glory. Don’t be late when buying a ticket for the peace train. Don’t defer your own birth. Don’t hold off on holding the hand of the one you love. Don’t dilly-dally when traveling the highway of opportunity. Don’t postpone calling fortune on the phone. Don’t temporize when being offered a word to the wise. Don’t hang fire when you’ve got an appointment with desire. Don’t procrastinate when offered a date with lucky fate. Don’t hesitate to breathe. Don’t hesitate to breathe. Don’t hesitate to breathe.
Just ‘cause you can separate the chain from the gang don’t mean you can always escape your pain. Just ‘cause you’re rich doesn’t mean you don’t have slums running through your blood. Just ‘cause you might get stoned don’t mean you’re as dumb as a rock. Saying you have family values don’t always mean you value the rest of the world. Just ‘cause your goose may be cooked don’t mean you can’t cook up some tasty reparations. You might scat a winter moon, but can’t croon the sun in June. You may have teetotaling eyes, but your grin may be 100-proof gin. Just ‘cause your heartsong might not be right for tailgate parties doesn’t mean it don’t full-on rock.
Morning sashays the blue-sky runway, dazzling kisses sunnyside up. Her go-go booted truth, far from aloof. She vamps before our eyes, gleaming with warmth and star-studded beauty shine. She makes everything bold and golden. Her rise-and-shine song: sweet, sonorous peekaboo. Not broken-hearted boo-hoo. Everywhere you look, splendor and serenity. Thank you and pretty please. Ain’t no need for the morning birds and roses to hide behind flimsy alibis or hardened bulletproof glass.
Glorious angels circle the LA night sky. Their beating wings scatter deadbeats. Their healing kisses dampen the siren’s cry. Across town, Kindness finally gets a star on Hollywood Boulevard while high in the hills, wolves prowl, spread howl like bloodseed. Downtown there is song, dance, and pills with the names of saints to send you into radiant dreams. The mistress of well-dressed ennui prowls Westside streets. Empty Eastside lots confess the names of the dead they’ve long concealed. In Leimert Park, they’re serving up words fresh off poetry’s meaty bone. Down on Skid Row, every line in every homeless person’s face reveals all the joys and pains ever known to this city.
This last year with Trump has felt like the Constitution has been used to light a dumpster fire. He scams with crooked truths and a hangman’s noose. Peddles snake oil like it’s the crude oil to make this country rich. On his first day in office, he slipped Mother Nature a roofie, began raping the land of its natural resources. Idiocy, idolatry, and insensitivity are his holy trinity. He’s elevated hate to an executive-level cabinet position. Has built a new level in Dante’s Inferno to include one of his hotels. Got one hand on the nuclear button, the other on his phone. Uses Twitter like he’s drunk dialing the world. All this and so much more to “make America great again.”