The Architecture of Affection

No nails are holding us to love; only our enduring faith in its continual rising.

At the Gates of the Cruel Human Animal Kingdom

Don’t give us a sackful of dollars when a heart full of change is what’s needed to make things right. Don’t give us a photocopy of redacted reality when we demand the real deal. Don’t build doomhearted detention camps when all we’re saying is give peace a chance. Don’t deploy dumb bombs of doombloom when we demand smart bombs of aplomb. Don’t give us Sturm und Drang when we crave strum and twang. Don’t say your word is the map when you can’t even chart the territory of truth. Don’t claim to be good for our nation when your patron saints are bigotry, misogyny & bankruptcy. Don’t claim to be enlightened when all you study is the Kama Sutra of confusion.

Summer’s Lusty Instruments

Summer is showing a little too much June gloom in its hair. It walks with a chilly cane and seems a little heavier these days. But soon, July will turn summer’s locks golden, take a good twenty years off its appearance, and have everyone grooving in a bright dance of dreamtingle. We’ll be sun-lulled by the hurdy-gurdy sway of ecstasy flowers. Deep oceans will call us deeplytoswim. Tanned skin will be the color of summer’s lusty instruments playing boldly. July’s laughterblue of sunny high-noon days will have everyone forgetting chilly June gloom until bully August comes along with its obscenely awful heat stomping us all to a sweaty mess.

Green Hymns & Smoke Signals

The sky transmits beautifully blue love letters to the sun. Fish breathe palpable poems to oceans. Strawberry fields croon love songs to the enduring spirit of the Beatles. Trees bloom green hymns to our every living breath. Alleyways whisper twisted tales to evening cities. Tombstones offer rose-prayers to the deceased. Highways promise eternal wonders to all ghost-riders wishing to continue their afterlife travels. Our burdens send smoke signals to the heart of all matters, hoping it can translate turbulence into tranquility.

What the Cleaning Lady Said While We Were Washing Reality’s Underwear

Be the shine of stars whose light hasn’t yet reached the world’s eyes. Lend a tongue to voiceless boulevards. Offer your third-eye to those blinded by defeat. Read between the mind’s lines to speak living words of wisdom. When washing the underwear of reality, make sure you clean it down to the nitty-gritty. In your off-hours, make love to the Statue of Liberty; give rebirth to freedom and opportunity. When the world tries to keep you down, live larger than life; don’t vacation in the myopic tropics of nothingness. And when writing your story, don’t limit yourself to the letters in a bowl of alphabet soup.

An Arrangement to Forgo Musical Estrangement

If you stay true to my swamp blues, I’ll forever guard your avant-garde. If you don’t dump on my cowpunk, I won’t sass talk your classical. If you dig my big band, I’ll French kiss your French pop. If you don’t deface my drum ‘n’ bass, I won’t go aggro on your techno. If you’re super psyched about my psychedelic, I’ll worship your Christian rock. If you don’t rant about my anti-folk, I won’t trash talk your country rap. If you scrub my dubstep, I’ll lambent your ambient. If you aren’t hostile to my gospel, I won’t get crude with your smooth jazz. If you share zygotes with my zydeco, I’ll cuddle with your K-pop. If you don’t slam my jam bands, I won’t meddle with your hair metal.

Inner Weather Report

In LA, it might be June gloom outside but one’s interior weather can be a fun-loving, jitterbugging, non-gridlocked highway of totally high on life. A double-malted of an exalted Nirvana freebasing grace and toking on jokes that can make even a cold boulder crack a smile. A diamond-refined inner weather of deliciously heaped sunbaked servings of organic intrigues, supernatural in their natural ability to entertain life’s beautiful mysteries. No clouds of pain. No rains of strain. Just thunders of wonder and flashes of do-right lightening across our inner skies to help guide us through these days of haze.

Buddhist Peace Conference

A dear friend and I were drinking in a noisy bar. Amidst the sonic artillery of random, rapid-fire conversations, my friend said something about a Buddhist peace conference. Right away, my mind entertained the possibility of peace in this world and all worlds—human realms, animal, insect, and spirit realms. Karma as the car that can drive us to the heartland of auspiciousness, or the shadowlands of ruin. Hatred exchanged for honeyed sentiments for all sentient beings. It wasn’t until my friend mentioned the songs “Breaking the Law” and “Living After Midnight” that I realized he hadn’t said Buddhist peace conference. He’d said, Judas Priest concert.

If One is to Ever Dance on My Grave

let it be something sensual & rhythmic—a tango or rumba, a samba or mambo. Something earthquaking & soul-shaking. A lively ballroom jive that’s not some jive yanking the chain of my ghost. Rave or ballet. Modern or Bollywood. Charleston dances kicking up dust, sending all demons to the far outskirts of hurt. An electric boogaloo that doesn’t require the assistance of a tombstone as a crutch. Popping, locking & jooking. Capoeira, quicksteps & bellydances. Radical movements to create an atlas the dead can use to shake, rattle & roll their way through the afterlife.

One for the Fathers

This one goes out to all the dads: married dads, divorced dads. Rad dads & dads that are no longer with us. Dads that take their kids to parks, museums & poetry readings. Dad that rock their little ones to sleep. Dads that share dreams with their kids upon waking. Writer dads, accountant dads, musician dads & painter dads. Funny dads & serious dads. Dads that are hip to the hipsway of can’t we all just get along. Pet dads & stay at home dads. Dads that wish upon a star & value their kids for who they are. Dads on the frontlines of doing what’s right to create better relations for the next generation. Happy Father’s Day to all of you!