Aural Honey to Feed the Silent Void

Songbirds herald sunrise. Their melodies burble forth, making everything a symphony. Those feathered arias scribe beauty onto the void of a world alone and fractured from itself. The sun rises a little higher, anoints one and all with a taste of healing gold. Songbirds follow suit; offer a voice to those who have no voice. When they fly away, their music still lingers in the air. It is a hymn that slips between the cracks to guard the heart—aural honey whose sweetness deepens with every listening.

When Wounds Fell Away Like Rain

I remember that day when the wounds fell from our bodies. When they hit the street, they broke apart like raindrops and sparkled everything clean. Even Death washed all its dirt away that day. It sang while it was showering. Reminiscing about those times when it was young and free. When every moment was filled with joy. Every moment a parade of peace and breath.

Another Day

It’s another day of cold-blooded bureaucrats & protest-souled heroes whose fearlessness sings fortissimo. Another day of misery practicing its blindfolded knife-throwing trick while everyday people discover their inner superhero by warding off naysayers & joyslayers to wield random acts of kindness. Some say it’s a dog-eat-dog world while others take their dogs for loving walks in the park. Some were born from the bulletwomb while others make it their life’s mission for inner peace to play DJ in the boogie-down room. Another day for villains to spread poison while our everyday superheroes protect passions. Another day. Another day.

ain’t it oh so solid gold

how a certain radio song can be your passport to a better day. when a well-remembered melody can blast through the massive feedback loop of one blues after another and leave you feeling clean. ain’t it just like that song, fueled by heartache and high-octane, to plant its roots deep down inside you at the crossroads of memory and mercy. that place where you were once just a breath-seed in your mama’s belly. her heartbeat drum, the first rhythm to rock you to your core. soar you to the top of the charts to ring in your soulful song of life.

Honesty and Elbow Grease

Dress the heart in white light. Unlock the mind, let it roam naked and free through imagination’s endless avenues. Never mind if the spirit gets dirty while rubbing up against the grime of these times. All good things come clean with a little elbow grease and an honesty whose striptease only gets better and better the more truth reveals itself on the tongue’s dance floor.

In the Hours Before Sunrise

I was a double rainbow that believed itself to be a tombstone that believed itself to be a rose. I was satisfaction and surrender, the North Star in witness protection after observing one too many crimes in the city streets below. In the predawn hours I was birdsong and a troubled blues at the crossroads. Angel fire and wish fulfillment, loaded dice and a deal made with the devil. I was the color wheel of love, grief, and hope. A ghost sheet hung out on a clothesline, billowed back to life by a soft and fragrant seance of breeze. In the hours before sunrise.

A Chance Encounter on the Dark Side of Humanity

Mother of Destruction, take your vile offspring—war, racism, oppression & greed—and teach their tongues more loving ways to speak. Dethrone your restless gods of dread, transform their perilous bombs into balms of calm. Tame your cannibals of hate so they no longer devour our fresh-meat laughter. Shed your chaos and quarrel, your hemlock habitats. Vaporize your vile heart of crude gunshot wounds. Know, too, that no matter how often you may leave your bloodmark of misery on our foreheads, we will always rise to conquer. Be it with knowledge, faith, or compassion.

when i say Women are the bomb

i mean their minds are minefields of explosive thoughts. when i say Women are cerebral i mean they’re piloting nirvanic rockets to the alpha centauri of imagination. their backbones are bridges over the river why. some Women even got plato acting like play-doh in their hands when it comes to slinging feminist theories that are more like searing dear john letters to the aeons of white male rhetoric loaded with no safe words, only hierarchy & oppression. when i say Women are the boss i mean their wombs are waiting rooms where seeds of beings prepare for the job interview of a lifetime.

Buster Bustier

What I need is a miracle bra to boost my spirits. A sari equipped with sorrys for any time I step out of line. Stiletto heels that double as pickaxes to dig my way out of bad decisions. Cargos that help my car go. A G-string that plays in the key of we. A jumpsuit that jolts my soul into rapturous rounds of psychic double dutch. Scrunchies that double as munchies. A chastity belt to keep my angry thoughts in check. A pencil skirt that writes spontaneous poetry. A bustier that allows me to roll with the punches like Buster Keaton. Some may consider this line of thought mere crossdressing. I call it a way of putting my most fashionable foot forward.

The Frothiness & Loftiness of it All

May all this living—the kissing, cursing, singing, sighing, frothiness, and loftiness of it all—love us madly until we are beckoned by time to slip into a darkness more comfortable than our clothes. May our scars and blemishes be jewels in the afterlife. Our shared stories, a way to cure ghosts of their lonely roaming. From the trickster spirit that flickers séance candles to puffs of smoke, to the hallowed and haloed spirit that gathers living hands to prayer, may all souls never be bled of their dignity and ease. When comes that day we untether from the human breath, may our memories be more wondrous than wounding.