A song of doing-no-wrong breaks out on the boulevard. It soul steps in a mid-tempo strut, wails in the key of B Mighty. The song of doing-no-wrong packs an extra shot of sass in its vocal attack, wields brass knuckles to protect our chuckles. For miles around, nothing but smiles. Worried question marks straighten into elated exclamations. The song of doing-no-wrong is past perfect, future friendly, and present moment majestic. It’s a hot-blooded holler, wet with dreamalicious schemes. The song of doing-no-wrong continues along on a pursuit of happiness—not so much its, but ours.
A potent poem in the making, curfew-defying syllables breaking free from our lips. A ballad of strength and clarity dressing skeletal music in a durable flesh and bones. Be the living memorial to those who’ve died fighting for our rights. Be the unshakable page history has yet to write. See how those in power cower at the heels of our new uprising. See the hammer forge our words into positive action. This is the alphabet of our audacity. The ABC’s of the mighty strength we share.
What about the weathers of the heart? Too hot, too cool? Not enough of a blip to warrant a reaction from life’s meteorologist? Is thunder shaking the bones in a mortuary blues? Or is it a clear day filled with bird language swinging a hula hoop groove? Are time’s rains washing away all joys once written between the lines? Be there hurricanes of happiness? Tornadoes of titillation? Whatever the weather, I give you this morning sun. And I entrust you with this umbrella for safe keeping.
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.
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.
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.
Our old terrors and errors can brighten the syntax of a greater America if we can learn how to transform our past horrors and heartbreaks into a spectacular vernacular of equal opportunity uncaged from the hushings of our grim parentheses.
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.
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.