Morning sun of unchained light, bountiful is your fruit of illuminated grace. May the warrior in you remain noble, guide us safely through our day. May the birdsongs woven through your golden hair never unsing themselves to ash. The steadfast and patient hours that shepherd you across the sky, may they never become our stone-hearted assassin. As for your velocity of solace, may it lead us to a restful place. So come day’s end, when we are lullabied by the moon-tuned night, we can all sleep a little easier.
I wouldn’t’ve mentioned alternative universes or hydrogen-fueled planes. I woulda told Trump how he’s a dinosaur of criminality feedin’ on the brains of democracy. A dirty spittoon of lunacy with a magnificently unmagnificent sense of equanimity. All malevolent machismo and tempestuous treachery. To the world, I would’ve apologized for his presidency. Once done, Mueller woulda followed up with roundhouse kicks of lightning-fast indictments. So much for that MAGA hat having Kanye save the day like Superman. The heavy ass whippin woulda already been done.
While certain politicians claim climate change is a hoax, hurricanes continue gorging themselves on greenhouse gases, emitting severe weather feedback. Nothing mundane about methane, they say. Nitrous oxide isn’t just for parties anymore, they guffaw. Melting glaciers increasing sea levels. Heat trapped in the lower atmosphere creating panic at earth’s disco. Citizens dance towards commonsense solutions, while climate change-denying politicians wipe sweat from their brows. They claim the rising temperatures are due to their heated emotions over the way they feel Kavanaugh was so poorly treated at the hearings.
On evenings when no one is looking, time takes a break from our human chaos. It slips behind shadows, bathes in moonlight to rid itself of all our rage and sorrow. So slow is the cleaning. Our misery, like mud. Our dastardly doings, caked dirt between the toes. Times like these, time barely wants to give us the time of day. But, like us, it has nowhere to go but forward. So time slips out from behind shadows and back into our lives. A little cleaner, and moving forward more quickly, as if to outrun us.
The book of humanity is bloodstained. Its torn pages are flags from wars of defeated civility. Its fragmented sentences drag the bodies of the dead behind them. Its prepositional phrases are sent off to detention camps. Some will burn the book of humanity, claim it never existed. Others will tend to its battered thoughts, teach its scarred eyes to reopen. When we gather together the book’s battle-bruised letters, give them new shape and sound, resonance and responsibility, the words will chime like bells. What once was lost is now alive.
Time to offer a song to all silenced souls. A soaring melody for anyone who’s been at the butt end of loaded injustices. Anyone who’s felt the heat of desolation bearing down on them, its itchy trigger finger twitching bloodlust. A whispered lullaby for those feeling devalued, deloved. A raucous rocker to delouse all the lousy feelings. A bluesy ballad to battle the climate change of one’s chaotic inner weather. Honeyed lyrics to satisfy worry’s lost sweet tooth. A punker to pump up one’s tolerance in life’s mosh pit. A song to soothe, shout, dance, and enrapture all those silenced souls into a loving life lived out loud.
I worry about the boys and girls being raised today. We’ve got a president whose actions dictate that a woman’s place is to live in silence; that minorities should be discriminated against; that privileged white boys should be entitled to scoop heaping helpings of untruths from dirty money’s belly with their silver spoons. Even if parents and teachers bend over backwards to speak out against these abhorrent behaviors, certainly today’s children must still wonder: How could a president like this ever rise to power? What has become of “My country, ‘tis of thee”? What has happened to my, “Sweet land of liberty”?
Coltrane took a midnight train through bebop rains on his way to Coolsville. Dylan was willin’ to ride wild-word winds, singin’ his way to Coolsville. Zora Neale never kneeled before any latchkey lackeys on her way to Coolsville. Earhart never gave her heart to anyone or anything but Coolsville. Rosa Parks never parked her courage anywhere but in the front seat of Coolsville. Aretha Franklin never drank a thing but the smooth waters of Coolsville. Blasey-Ford’s gonna barrel her Ford of integrity through the walls of Trump’s misogyny on her way to Coolsville.
Imagine assault rifles exchanging their bullets for prayer beads. Criminal politicians transforming into the currency of meaningful kisses. Vagueness awakening into a new enlightenment. Despots getting extreme soul makeovers at Home Depot. Autocrats becoming arts and crafts teachers for the masses. Voices for the voiceless. Choices for the choiceless. All deception, a new religion of confession. The conquered and divided multiplied exponentially back into a better life. Justice no longer a fable screamed by the white entitled, but a truth whispered by all with dignity and clarity.
You don’t need a palm reader to know that when I’m around you my lifeline sometimes gets tongue-tied. Don’t need the sandman to know my sleeping dreams often send you fan mail. No special intuition required to understand you’re ubiquitous above all I hold fantabulous. No hush money payday will ever bribe away my heyday for your howdy. Even when you’re seeing red I’ll reveal the whites of my eyes to get you feeling pink. No Roman god of cosmetology can ever improve upon the beauty of your cosmology.