Jukebox Moon

Outside my window, a streetlamp that is both halo and interrogation light. Sounds of distant sirens tattoo the once silent air with murmurs of emergency. When held over fire, the invisible ink of our hearts reveals its deepest secrets. Any of our bones that haven’t been picked clean by day’s cold suspicions get to dance beneath another jukebox moon. Sing a song to glitter you beyond graveyards. Whisper a prayer for those who left us too soon.

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West of West

When we are tuned in to the instruments of the moment, it’s like life is playing a symphony just for us. When we are tuned out, nothingness resounds its hollow bell in our bones. We can travel west of west or east of east but still end up right back where we started. So many of life’s journey’s feel like echoes of previous life journeys. Only now we’re a little older and hopefully, hear these experiences with more attuned ears.

Where Mingle the Living and Dead

Come evening, the border between the living and dead grows smaller. Tombstones lay their ears back as the clatter of shoes on shadowy streets sounds its cold bone parade. Mother gun growls, her merciless womb packed with bullets. Sirens, the soundtrack of ill-fated hearts. Above us, the keeper of night secures heaven in its chain of stars. The ageless moon stands sentry. Where mingle the living and dead a redeeming light must reach.

Rudolph Rant #666

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer is a chronically congested, peace-detesting, bed-hogging, bomb-headed hooligan. An alphabet-bashing, net neutrality-trashing, Bruce Lee of lethal lethargy that can’t even kung fu his way out of a wet paper bag. Happy holidays anyway, one and all!

Whammy of Wonder

Wizard a whammy of wonder onto the world. Make the poor fortunate, those on their deathbeds get up and dance and remember everything again. Wizard a whammy of wonder onto the world. Be earnest in your earthiness. Sing oceans, mountains, deserts, forests. If you’re off key, all the better. Nature adores chaos. Wizard a whammy of wonder onto the world. Ensure that all crazed ids and egos attend psychic open mics to work out all their demons before entering society. Turn serial killers into cereal thrillers that get off on making us breakfast each morning. Unvirus society’s vitriol so we’re left with only a petrol that fuels hearts to love.

DIY Instead of DOA

To have our good deeds outnumber our failings. To maintain balance during human tsunamis. To encourage diplomacy instead of daggers. To teach halo’ed speech instead of hate speech. To scrape the pulsing blue ache from disillusioned souls. To remove the graveyard from sorrow’s heart. To supply the rank and file with weapons of wisdom. To make the human race a fair one to the finish line. To be DIY instead of DOA. To slow the receding of time’s hairline, or at least figure out new ways to style it.

The Medicine’s in the Madness

Overcrowded jails, underfunded classrooms. Crooks in high places, gutters teeming with the homeless. Mass shooters, mass graves. Sirens, serial killers. Bullying soul-suckers swinging from the last thread of humanity’s sanity. Now take these tragedies, look between the dark cracks. See unbroken families, people dancing. Vast oceans, lush forests. Buses on time. Justice on time. Machine-guns melted into musical instruments. Good dreams fresh off the grill. Now close your eyes, feel our world rotate on its strange axis. Its wobble can indicate trouble or a love bump. On that which we fix our attention can become our madness or medicine.

Hollywood Has So Many Alleyways

In every one, a lingering shadow marks another human lost. How should we mourn these nameless beings that have gone ghost? How should we mourn all the unknown spirits that wander America’s streets? Anywhere you look on a map, so many crossroads where souls have been traded and sold till they’re less than dust. Ghost-town America with its disillusionment and drug overdoses is spilling out of Hollywood alleyways and into a suburb near you. See all the sad souls fall like stars from the flag. These are the voices that wail on the lonesome wind.

Hungry Clock

The sun rises so the day doesn’t remain dark. Gravity continues its ageless embrace so we don’t spin off into oblivion. Along our journey, obstacles and oracles confront us. Danger’s wounds are alluring for a little while, then scab over into better judgment. The scars left behind reminds us that now is the time to wave goodbye to a year soon gone. Gather any past deeds and actions that can still serve you, the rest leave as carrion for the hungry clock. Then carefully abide by your body map. Old wounds will chart your way towards grace.