id did

She tells me my psyche drunk-dialed her last night.

Says it went on and on about how it wanted to be with her but also longed to be unhindered by the human body,

all the responsibilities of paying taxes, holding down a job, and wondering how long it could wear a pair of jeans before needing to wash them.

She says my drunk psyche;

its id was off the grid as it babbled on about the power of imagination, appreciation, actions and attitudes,

how it could all be too much sometimes, how it yearned to superglue its superego to a passing breeze and be done with it.

I ask her how the phone call ended.

She says my drunk psyche mumbled something about wanting to crossdress its anima with her animus and see where that led us.

I ask her how she feels about that.

She says her psyche is out having a few drinks right now, but it’ll get back to me.

Soap or No Soap

Every so often, I still taste soap from all those years ago when my mom would wash my mouth out for talking dirty.

The taste reminds me there’s a fine line between what is acceptable and unacceptable, and how that fine line can sometimes come in the form of Irish Spring or Dove.

In her own way, my mom did me a favor. At least I didn’t grow up sounding like a drunken sailor with Tourette’s.

To honor my mom, I keep a sweet-talking spot beneath my tongue.

There, you can experience the dulcet tones of rain on a red wheelbarrow as words sounding like Mother Theresa crossed with a Hallmark card resonate softly.

As for the rest of my mouth, that’s another story.

Soap or no soap, I still occasionally curse like an angry breeze unable to write a dissertation on how to stay still and be here now.

The Whole of It All

It’s another day when cemetery seasons are ceaseless,

and the mind and body are overburdened by the jet lag

of flying economy between higher states of consciousness.

Across the page of this day, we draw our eyes in an ink that grows brighter with time.

Whenever trees blow in the breeze and leaves tremble in their strange thoughts,

I’m with you, and you are with me.

Earth of love, sea of earth, sky of dreams.

Bubblegum Pop Song

When the radio is turned off, bubblegum pop song spits and curses in public.

It stabs jazz in the back, sleeps with your lover, then blames it on your best friend.

Bubblegum pop song lies on the witness stand, slashes your tires, tramples your tired heart, writes its autograph in your blood.

It steals the key to your city, copies it, shares it with all its pop song friends, then overtakes the airwaves of your brain.

Bubblegum pop song unteaches your dog how to read Howl, dances on the grave of your lost memories,

tries to sell you the latest version of a drip-dry, ready-to-wear apocalypse.

But when the radio is turned back on,

bubblegum pop song returns to being its catchy, sticky sweet self.

Club War No More

On the dance floor of war no more, there’s a backstabber who’s given up his proverbial daggers to study disco.

Bomb makers devote their time and talents to ballroom dancing.

A mass shooter lays down his arms and throws himself into swing dance.

A poisoner sets aside her concoctions to do hip-hop.

Military strategists shelve their battlefield metaphors to practice folk.

Every Tuesday is ladies’ night. Every Thursday, anti-assassin’s happy hour.

In the club of war no more, there’s always room for another.

All you have to do is believe that for every peaceful heart, there’s a dance partner.

Once Upon a Lonely Night

Approaching the crossroads, I sing.

That’ll show the devil I don’t wish to trade my soul for a voice other than my own.

Singing will reveal that my bones aren’t cutout dolls made of ghosts.

That I can endure evenings when the night sky is a wasteland, a vast field of shattered stars and truth-blind moons.

I approach the crossroads, singing.

A House Made of Hellos

It’s another day when boredom is looking for its passport to have an exciting adventure in a strange land.

Perhaps it’ll visit a house made of hellos.

Maybe it’ll date a crossword puzzle.

And while, at first glance, the puzzle may appear to be blank, just below the surface are wisdoms waiting to be discovered.

Once boredom finds its passport, it opens its front door and gazes out upon the land.

A voice lingers in the air:

this is a collect call from the world. Will you accept the dream?

The Feels

Down at the corner bar, the bartender is a sweet talker but has a parole officer with a face like a manhole cover.

The bouncer’s wisdom teeth have traveled to a south-Asian monastery to spend a year with Tibetan monks.

The woman drinking shots of JD has got a kiss that’ll leave shrapnel in your mouth.

She says 12 angry men are taking the fifth, and that purple prose makes brown eyes blue.

Then she puts more money in the jukebox.

It’s hard to understand what it’s singing on nights when it has too many drinks.

Still, it’s easy to hear when certain songs bleed.

Many melodies have wounded themselves in the service of making us feel.

The Road Before You

When you venture out on your own, you’ll pass graveyards where stray dogs chew lost years like old bones and swear no road is home.

When you venture out on your own, lady moon will dance for you if you know the password to the secret room behind her shine.

Gardens long to bear the flowers of you.

Roses bloom backward to reveal to you the secrets of the underground.

When you venture out on your own, certain memories will be pregnant with broken mirrors.

Days may sound strange because their lips are parched from kisslessness.

As you approach the crossroads, listen to the blindfolded sweethearts feeling their way back to love’s source.

They say there’s a music box that waits for you to fill with all the melodies that melt you to a delicious hum.

Moon

Over the Hollywood Hills, the moon has a blood-red color, golden by the ocean.

There’s a drum moon for late-night rockers.

Dagger moon; deathrattle moon;

high over the desert, coyote moon.

The moon of jeweled silences

is the one that waits by your bed

until you sail off safely to sleep.