Some hold a lit match to Mother Liberty’s robe, all too eager to ignite the powder keg that is America; burn away what’s left of democracy; dress it in red, white, and bruises. Some have no sympathy for civility and equality; slap locks on love, throw it in Guantanamo; feed it nothing but canned cruelty and freshly murdered lies. America has become too big for taming and too small to long endure this relentless ice age of hate. A deep chill grows in these bones as benevolence gets converted into still another battlefield where the kind-hearted are continually downed by unfriendly fire. In times like these, I say bring on the weapons of reason. Bring on the weapons of peace.
Frenzied fornication between age-old hate and recrimination produces generations of bombs sprouting forth from the loins of war. That BOOM BOOM you hear emanating from the torture room translates into maddened penetrations into endless combinations of devastation. We can be shocked into tearlessness by it all, or inspired by fearlessness to commit great acts of beauty and benevolence. No time to think about our differences in sexual preference, skin color, or country of origin when the things that can obliterate us are just one crazed tweet away. Time to steal away all the world’s arrows and slings so we can stand loud and proud, sing winged zingers of wheee!
No matter their beauty, their promises made, the kisses and caresses, or drugs they’re packing, I will not be swayed by the groupies of entropy. My spirit yearns to rise, melodize, vitalize, and actualize.
May our hearts never cage nor condemn the birds of sweetness. May their melodies inspire us to sing our lives in the key of grace major. May our minds long linger in fields of remembrance, trading memories with one another; life’s mysteries revealed in the unified flowering of we. May our fists unwar their grip from bombs. May our actions nectar guns into a loving sweet, transforming bullets into bright little beasts worthy of kisses.
People dying from disease. Dying for clean water to drink. People dying for a kind word, or hello. No extra shot of racism with their Starbucks americano. People dying for a fight. Dying from a bullet, fist, or fright. People dying for appreciation; less taxation, more honest representation. Dying of depression. Dying for the next presidential election. People dying from being undernourished, overstimulated, discombobulated. People dying for truth. Quadraphonic equality and a freedom-ringing groove. People dying to love, to give, and dance. People dying to live again. People dying to live again.
1) Wear a Sigmund Freud rubber mask. 2) Approach calmly, carefully, with your emotional baggage not too heavily packed. 3) Mouth words like “symbiotic,” “cooperative,” and “reconciliation.” 4) If the Sigmund Freud rubber mask doesn’t work, try Scooby Doo or Betty Boop. Definitely not Jabba the Hut. 5) Wear your own headphones, ignore your inner child. 6) When your inner child isn’t looking, plug into its mix. 7) Listen deeply. Feel the rhythms of everything wonderful and wounded. 8) Should your inner child ask you to dance, strip away all self-consciousness, and move. The only one watching is you.
If kissing were a mathematical formula, the equation of a circle would equal the shape of your puckered lips—an elliptical sweetness whose radius is centered at the origin of bliss. Any and all equivalent chord theorems would refer to your joy’s intuited music—songs soothing savage global anxieties into a geo-born geometry whose main function is to create an earth that is beautiful and round. An earth that graciously bears humanity’s weight, along with providing an error-free formula stating that true love can exist, just like the presence of your perfect-circle kiss.
Shopping for a new nightmare at the Un-American Mall of AmeriKKKa? Lynching ropes and semi-automatic weapons are always fifty percent off. Waterboarding demonstrations are held hourly in the parking lot. Join the National Guard in the food court as they build a wall around El Pollo Loco to separate the Mexicans and Mexican food sympathizers from Mrs. Fields, Hot Dog on a Stick, and Subway. Take advantage of Torture Tuesdays where a new race, gender, or religion is maligned and brutalized. And don’t forget—the Disney “It’s a Small World” ride has been replaced by “Welcome to Our World of Zenophobia, Homophobia, and Philophobia All Topped Off With an Indomitable Sense of Ignorance, Paranoia, and Conspiracy Theories.”
Suddenly a smile, stitched together by songbirds and easy-moving streams. A soothing music of muses entangled in a soft white-noise of joy; sweet showerings of tranquility whose native language is rain. Suddenly a smile, a soulvolutionary war in devolutionary times. An uprising of alive where weapons abandon inner and outer battlefields. Wounds scatter in winds. Bruises heal their battered blue. Contentment asks, “Do you remember where you came from, or where you’re going?” It asks, “Is that scar on your arm a birthmark, or a wound you suffered along the way?”
When bad luck crank calls you in the middle of the night, tell it you already gave at the office. Insist it should dial 911, report itself missing. That it should learn how to harmonize with jukeboxes, unbend its pent-up despair into pop songs of do no wrong. When bad luck crank calls you in the middle of the night, recommend it should buy some serendipity gum, learn how to blow bubbles of fun. Maybe do something more productive with its time—learn to play an instrument, feed the homeless. Give it the number of a reliable shrink or priest. Wish it well. Send bad luck on its way. Tell it goodbye was the perfect word invented for moments like these.