Psychic Car Crash

More and more, each day feels like a psychic car crash. Everyone stopped in their tracks at the scene of the accident, staring dumbfounded & disbelieving at society’s latest carnage: mass shootings, immigrant bashing, hate speech, sexual harassment. Whether or not we’re directly involved, it all feels like a genocide of the senses—each of us, in some way, dying a little every day. Then we gather up our courage and good fortune and move on, already bracing ourselves for the next tragedy. To survive it all with any kinda grace, we gotta have a thick skin. That, and our hearts gotta remain wide open beneath our body armor.

Calling All Butterflies

Straight butterflies, gay butterflies. Truth-speaking, truth-seeking butterflies. Butterflies drawn to enlightenment. Ones taunted by hate speech or sexual harassment. Freedom-minded butterflies. I Have a Dream-inspired butterflies. Butterflies of all shapes, sizes & colors. Ones of peaceful persuasions & all denominations. Butterflies that would make the Pope fall to his knees. Butterflies that would make James Brown say Please, Please, Please. Gun violence-affected butterflies. Climate change-affected butterflies. All you butterflies, flap your wings. Move mountains. Move voting booths. Create a butterfly effect for higher good.

In 100 Years When

When I approach you on the street, read between the lines of my whispers. Know there are no pipe bombs planted in my words. My fingers aren’t daggers. Yes, my eyes are recording devices, but only to recall this moment long after we’ve parted ways; when we’re both lying awake in the middle of the night, wondering what new derangements will greet us the next day. Let’s meet again in 100 years when, hopefully, all this craziness has died down. No more red hats. No more insanely stickered vehicles resembling stalker vans on steroids. Just a land where kindness rules. And MAGA stands for—Mercy, a Grand Achievement.

Lost America

So many lost souls on so many lost roads. Not even the devil can be found at the crossroads. He went searching for his own soul ages ago. Such a quiet night in this lost America. Don’t bother searching for the stars vanished from the night sky. Not even they can recall their names. Only their fall from grace.

Where There’s Fire, Not Always Light

To those with shrouded eyes and stone-hearted ways, not accustomed to parenting light. To those casting lie after lie to the masses as if they were bountiful feasts. To those enslaving our brains to grim factories and psychic prisons, leaving imagination to spend its days in the dark. We must learn to build ladders of grace for one another, a way up and out of society’s raging flames. Where there’s fire, there’s not always light. The essence of our existence can be witnessed in the bright and beautiful electricity of a simple hello. Stillborn is our hate. Newborn is our joy.

Spin Life’s Radio Dial

and you get soothing symphonies of love followed by one breakneck defeat after another. Men with savage appetites and children whose laughter creates new vocabularies of joy. Blues like dogs with sad eyes and old men sick of anything smelling like hope. Faulty engine valves clattering bad-luck ragtimes across an America that forgot to flush one too many times, leaving a merciless stink of hate and venomous verbiage permeating the airwaves. But then you spin life’s radio dial again, and it’s endless days of friends, paychecks, healed wounds, and the heart’s firing squad laying down its arms to slow waltz its way up the charts. Some days this music of ours will break your spirit. Other days, it’ll leave you joyriding through the night, challenging the moon to another exciting game of truth or dare.

Ain’t No Time

for sacharine-limbed, sortta sweet-ridin’ your way through this highly shifted-into-overdrive life; no need for greased-up, slipperier-than-sin lips tombloading unending lies into the mainstream; no cause for renegade-grenade, bomb-blasting madness; and definitely no room for gun-wieldin’, hyperbolic, psychotic slam dancin’, when what the world needs now is a cheek-to-cheek, hip-to-hip slow shuffle in this human dance hall where utter madness and catastrophe continually vie to be our dance partners.

World Party

Somewhere—beyond time, beyond the cosmos—the great spirit musician plays a drumbeat, which is our heartbeat prior to being conceived. Once that glimmer of us latches onto the rhythm, and mirrors that steady beat, we become part of life’s living music. Then, when the audience has arrived, when our seedling bodies are ready to party beyond our confines, we sing and dance our way into the world.

Anatomy of a Backbeat

Breath is music. Human steps are music. Songs sewed from every thread of existence. DNA blows blissful sax riffs. Eardrums hum, hearts lay down steady beats. Lips bebop, feet hip-hop. Human touch plays double dutch with hanging ropes, twists them into love knots of well-tuned hopes. Breath is music. Human steps are music. Hollers of tolerance break down hate-hewn walls. B natural beauty chimes timeless melodies. The nectar drawn from human pain creates enduring voices sweet as rain. Breath is music. Human steps are music. Songs sewed from every thread of existence.

Sweetness Follows

Turbocharge flowers, turn mums into muscle cars. Race the streets of beauty offering free rides to the infirm and elderly. Just as pleasure comes our way, so does pain. Best to always bear an open smile and a first-aid kit. Choose not to walk hunched like a sad question mark. Stand tall like an exclamation mark, a proud affirmation with a thunderclap backbone. Don’t just have casual sex with the truth, develop a strong relationship with it. Walk arm-in-arm whenever you go. Never allow your heart to become an untied shoe, no need for your love to stumble through life. Adopt a hive of honeybees. Know that wherever you are, sweetness follows.