Nation of Ruination

Nation of ruination, rid your tongue of hatred, violence, and greed. Learn to speak in more peaceful ways. Unstring bullets and bombs from your deadprayer beads. Shed your evil gods with their restless dreams of dread. Know that armageddon’s integration into today’s generation will only make them protest louder. Also realize that no matter how often you leave your bloodmark of misery on our foreheads, we will always rise to conquer—with knowledge, determination, and devotion.


A Forget-Me-Not in Your Garden of What-Nots

To pull a slow gun of tenderness on the fast and the furious. To unbullet our blue skies, have school shootings only be hoops. To pledge abhorrence to the Upgraded Hates of AmeriKKKa. To transform We Surely Must Screw ‘Em back to E Pluribus Unum. To offer prayerful reparations to anyone’s karma I’ve ever undharma’d. To be a forget-me-not in your garden of what-nots. To write our names across the chalkboard night sky. To leave this world with only love left behind.

Equations of Satanization

While we Twitter-bomb our opinions about kommissars and collusion, hate mongers and societal confusions, our unperturbed shadows slip by life’s asylum guards, cavorting and crooning in cool gardens of hellos and honeytouch. To hell with equations of satanization, our shadows say. Be damned all dirigible syllables of crash and burn battles. We may be your darker reflection, our shadows contend, but at least we know how to party discreetly when the lights are low.

The What of Love

Love sings the earth so big, swells seas deep & strong. It goldens the sun a little younger every day. Brightens eyes, makes them role models for night’s newborn stars. Love puts the tangy strawberry sweet in the babblebang of babydrum beat. It’s the howl searching for its dog, the kiss seeking its lips, the bird yearning to whisper the gift of flight in our ears. Love builds scarecrows to ward off slummingbirds, grumblebees, and cemetery songs. And while death’s guess looms ever present in the hands of time, love boldly answers the question of what the world needs now.

When a Black Cat Crosses Your Path

Seek the once stormy sky that became Van Gogh’s Starry Night. Or the burned-out lightbulb that can still teach bright ideas. Or the democracy that survived being gutshot by gun-toting hypocrisy. Search for the birds on telephone wires humming along to Leonard Cohen songs. Or those who can breathe joy into the laughter-proof air. Or the judge, jury, and executioner that became love, glory, and a confectioner. Search out the old and faded newspaper walking tall and proud down the boulevard of near extinction. Or the ticking time bomb that learned to pause and listen. Find them all and they’ll say: When a black cat crosses your path, don’t call it bad. Reinvent it as luck.


An ocean of beat-broken drums. A sky of sorrow-shackled melodies. We know this sound—the blues of life that can cut the juice on our joyful jukebox stomp. Still, the song never remains the same—a cry can become a lullaby reshaping slaughter into laughter; a feud can become a fugue unlocking chained souls in the key of freedom major. Hear the humming, strumming heartstrings in the distance. Someone, somewhere has left a porchlight on for us. Home is where we mend our fractured rhythms. Home is where we sing the vow of wow alive.

World of We

In this world of we, our bodies are continents taking many forms. We thunder-rumble, we sunshine-glide. We stand with great strength and pride, we slouch toward cities of pity. We wow, we whimper. We dance with one another, around each other. We foxtrot toward nirvana, and stagger stunned toward the void. We have ulterior motives locked deep inside our brains, and wear our hearts on our sleeves. We are weightless. We carry the weight of the world. Through sorrow and shakedown, through jump and joy, we continue along our path—life and death always a breath away.

The Ticking in Our Throats

The ticking in our throats—a bomb waiting to speak its mind. The slow demolition of democracy—a clairvoyance that failed to warn us of this ruin. The collected bones of bondage—a body besieged by continually pain. The tardy saints of our growing daze—a purple haze longing for better days. The increasing number of our choices gone astray—a world whose moral compass is pointed towards self-annihilation. The ticking in our throats—a voice yearning to be heard before time runs dry.

What the Doctor Suggested

If you’re allergic to our current president, try a dose of common sense. If you’re allergic to common sense, try a heaping helping of rabid dogs. If you’re allergic to rabid dogs, try a sunset walk on the beach. If you’re allergic to early evening walks on the beach, try texting blindfolded while walking through a minefield. If that gives you hives, try painting yourself into Van Gogh’s Starry Night. If you’re allergic to art, try your hand at firearms. If you’re allergic to guns, try peace and tranquility. If peace and tranquility gives you the heebie jeebies, try a dose of our current president.