The air is thick

with joy and social justice, absolute cruelty and alternative truths.

You gotta breathe between the cracks to catch a sip of pure oxygen.

Gotta continually dive into loving waters to rinse off the sludge of vendettas and grudges flying at us from every direction.

Subterfuge, shadows, promised land pummeled.

Gunmouthes say run, tombstones say lay still.

Hard to tell up from down, left from right, here from there, what or where.

So many questions, so much speculation.

I pray that when all the bullets, insults, prayers, and promises subside we are a better, wiser, more compassionate people.

Teenage years of nightswimming with friends in our small-town lake.

Beneath the four-count of a jukebox moon, we strip down to our underwear, bras and panties.

We navigate the slap and caress of cool summer waters, a feeling of liquid electricity shocking us crystal clear despite the smoke and booze in our blood.

We paddle through the post-pubescent murkiness:

blossoming acne, body hair, raging sex drives.

We push one another under; we lift one another up.

We swim away our blues.

We swim away the future.

We swim to outrace that strange feeling inside us, the ache of a deep blue empty.

Some of us glide effortlessly through the water; others swim with all their might—

caged birds discovering their first flight beyond the bars.

Up

Every weekday, you’re up early.

Up with the few remaining stars refusing to leave the last-call bar of a night sky straying towards morning.

Up with the wild dogs offering final howls to a waning moon.

The dark black all around you slips into bruise blue with a faint glow of healing light on the horizon.

Slowly rises the hum of traffic, a moving meditation.

Just as the caffeine alarm clock kicks in, you’re out the door and off to work.

On a good day, a string of red lights can turn green and suddenly it feels like you got the skeleton keys to all of opportunity’s doors.

You hit the gas, floor it.

The fast lane is open for those wide-awake enough to dream.

For E.

Praise these days when I can lift my daughter with one free arm while the rest of me happily packmules her backpack, my shoulder bag, art supplies, and lunch as we wander through the park on an L.A. day so clear you almost swear you can see the New York City skyline in the distance.

Days when my daughter wears her five years like a playground sage, imbued with dancetastic and drumistic bliss, our shared laughter refusing to be camouflage for beige boredom.

Praise these days when our feelings speak better than words, when we’re more concerned about the sweetness of the moment rather than tending to the cavities in tomorrow’s mouth.

Days when my daughter can safely and freely say hello to strangers, when she can wield her strength and grace in small but mighty ways.

Days when she reveals she’s a mighty Isis that can overcome any crisis;

her heart, never a place any placebo would wanna go and play.

World of Wonder

I wonder why there are far more books than time to read them.

Or if forgiveness can ever be given freely, or is it only offered on the installment plan.

I wonder if miracles ever need manicures or what happens to the many thoughts and feelings of those who pass away.

I wonder what weapons will look like in fifty years. Or our government, or how we’ll relate to one another.

I wonder what wonder will look like in fifty years.

Some say rust never sleeps, but I sometimes wonder if it ever takes a nap.

Or why I didn’t trust my mood ring more back in high school, or why I thought my crappy lava lamp would transform my dingy college dorm room into a makeout palace.

I wonder what the recipe is for kindness and why so many people screw it up.

I wonder who was the first person to invent hate and who’ll be the last person on earth to say the words,

I love you.

Death Says

Death tells me should it ever die, it’ll leave me all its record albums, all the good ones it’s had since college, not a scratch or skip on any.

Death claims it’ll leave me its guitar, mosh-pit boots, and treasure buried deep in the desert.

Death maintains even though it’s a bad-boned soul, it’s still managed to collect some sentimental items along the way:

arcade coins, karaoke trophies, and obituaries written in birdsong.

Death tells me should it ever die, I can keep what I want.

The rest, it says, give away—

to all the saints above and all the saints below.

Hooked on Phonics

If you are hooked on phonics, try visiting a witch doctor of silence.

If you are hooked on silence, a stroll along a tsunami-threatened California beach may do the trick.

If you are hooked on tricks, carry fewer aces up your sleeve.

If you are hooked on aces, jacks of all trades may have remedies for that.

If you are hooked on a particular remedy, try going cold turkey.

If you are hooked on cold turkey, a warm bout of veganism might be more concise.

If you’re far too hung up on conciseness, try getting hooked on phonics.

better weather / whether better

To live in a world where birdhouses are built atop gravestones, where gardens are planted in the hearts of the lonely, where lightning bug halos are forged for one and all. To live in a world where we burn rage, burn tears, burn what we don’t need, anoint those ashes across sky’s forehead, create better weather for our lives.

Serenity’s Seamstress

When the needle of progress gets stuck in a groove and history‘s cruel record repeats, repeats, repeats itself;

when some continue to believe the holocaust was merely a hologram;

when kisses taste like murder ballad lyrics;

when the psychological climate feels like cloudy with a chance of apocalypse;

when Pavlovian days ring their grim bells, expecting you to salivate for a few leftover scraps;

whenever life feels dark, dark, dark,

I hear serenity’s seamstress sews open doors into closed hearts.

Shakespeare’s Scissors

I’ve got a dependable car but would rather travel at the speed of my dreams.

I have the apocalypse in my back pocket but want heaven on speed dial.

I’ve moshed to Gwar, but I much prefer dancing in the park with my seven-year-old daughter.

I’ve got a candle in the wind but desire a burning ring of fire.

I have an excellent hairdresser but often wish for Shakespeare’s scissors to shear my own hair.

I’ve got GPS on my phone but fancy the internal compass of a blackbird.

I’ve got a dog in the race but sometimes long for a cat nap.