Seeds of beauty bloomed into woman prior to the wound. Stone of man laid its foundation for a mountain prior to the alone. Then came the rupture, the excommunication; the epitaph written on breath. What if love knew no limits? What if cruel histories had no hunger to repeat themselves? Damn Adam‘s rib for becoming the bone of contention with which the vicious would later pick their teeth. Damn the bombs of Eden when they exploded division into our consciousness.
Nothing is something I have done.
Nowhere is somewhere I once lived.
All the questions for which I’ve had no answers.
All my ghosts you’ve serenaded away.
Bless your jukebox soul for singing me into the real.
Blackbirds got 13 ways of looking at us. They say we’ve consumed the Kool-Aid of our tainted history. That we’re caught in a matrix of endlessly repeating fake tricks. That we’re abracadabraless when it comes to sprouting wings to soar towards new freedoms. The list goes on and on. Guess you can say blackbirds have shown us a little mercy by stopping at 12 + 1—a baker’s dozen of observations. Hot contemplation, fresh outta the oven. Blackbirds don’t care how many ways we look at them. They’re soul shapers, song shakers, magic makers. Blackbirds don’t need to color themselves anything other than what they are to be considered pure poetry.
When I said it was a sunny day, what I meant to say was, it’s raining frogs. When I said it was quiet outside, what I meant to say was, isn’t that the sound of Nero’s fiddle? When I said everything will be OK, what I meant to say was, it looks like history is practicing its blindfolded, knife-throwing act again. When I said, listen to the world sing in the key of life, what I meant to say was, it’s moaning a vertigo blues that sends our souls reeling. When I said I do my best to look on the bright side of life, what I meant to say was, there are many days when my inner child should be named Dostoyevsky.
Night drapes over us a sea of stars whose shiny brine tastes of our wants. Our tongues remember nights like these when we hunger for something or someone just beyond our reach. On nights like these, strong currents carry us into sleep. Our dreams write the story of our flesh. Our flesh writes the story of our dreams. Come morning, the sun bears the tuning fork of a new day. We are washed in a song of brilliant gold. Any of our lingering sorrows and losses have assumed the name of flower.
Do not allow your hands to become blind to the touch of another. Bear no eyes that cannot taste morning’s gold. Cure any lips that cannot hear a kiss’s voice from afar. And when you love, allow your heart the room to dwell within the depths of the eternal, while also knowing life’s vernacular does not contain the word, forever.
If you liposuction your mental functions, your thoughts may grow too lean. If you pray to the patron saint of parentheses, don’t expect to get a response spoken aloud. If the bloodhound of your psyche is sleeping, it’s difficult to sniff out intuitions on the wind. If your body eliminates its free radicals, you can still be considered a free radical.
Everyone has stories to tell of their journeys across this warring and wondrous lifetime. These tales, pulsing with melodic and sorrowful rhythms, reveal doldrums and daydreams, passions and disasters. No two sagas are the same, yet each one shares a driving heartbeat, always moving towards a place called home. Those fortunate enough to arrive, speak your stories brightly to guide the lost through the night. Voice them loudly and clearly, so it never sounds like you’re talking through a mouthful of ghosts.
hesitant president / turgid urgency / fractured manufactured / national emergency / double bubble / double trouble / treasony obesity / pop goes the weasely easily / resistance / persistence / deconstruction / reconstruction / do the hustle / flex your muscles / bees knees / say cheese / no to nooses / yes to truces / stay mum or grow mums / just don’t be numb / get juiced / seek truth / rise and shine / if 6 were 9 / renovate / innovate / mediocrity as electricity / no new light on life
Some have wings made of money. Others have black cats & broken mirrors in their blood. Some have manholes for mouths. Others speak in syllables of spark & serenity. Some have nests of brightly burning light bulbs behind their eyes. Others are strangers in the countries of their own skin. But all of us share in this joy, this struggle, this sorrow, this life, together.