Early Lessons In What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Stronger

When I was a child, I thought you could attach one side of jumper cables to the sun and the other to your ears in case you ever needed to jumpstart your smile.

Granted, my thinking wasn’t the most logical back then, but it kept my parents entertained.

Sometimes my shadow would jump into the river, and I would go in after it.

My father would always warn me to wear a life jacket.

When one wasn’t available, I’d wear this feral black cat around my neck. It served as hoax and flotation, an early lesson in what didn’t kill me made me stronger.

Once I retrieved my shadow, the cat and I would visit the local fortuneteller. She had a full moon for a third eye.

It glowed like my smile whenever it was hooked up to those jumper cables.

When we were young

when our lives were bouncing bundles of bright—joy measured our faces for wide-awake smiles.

Time went on, and those moments were often lost as we became buried deeper beneath jobs, debt, bone heaps of adult responsibilities.

Sometimes we can dig ourselves free to recall those long-ago moments of bouncing bright;

when our faces were all smiles.

Our hearts, a child’s drawing—a wild and beautiful scrawl of technicolor bliss.

Another Little Something About the Moon

The moon’s got a hundred bucks stuffed in her bra, hitting the Milky Way for a few drinks.

From where she’s sitting at the bar, Moon can see to the far end of the galaxy. She can see deep inside your heart.

Moon has a hard time finding jukebox songs that don’t mention her name, all the ways she’s been used to express love, mystery, heartache.

“Harvest Moon,” “Pink Moon,” “Man On the Moon,” and “Moonshadow.”

Moon doesn’t mind the attention; she’d just like a night off every once in a while.

Moon finishes her drink, leaves a hefty tip.

Out she goes, strutting the night sky’s streets, searching for love, searching for trouble.

See how the click of her high heels sparks the finest silver stars.

Where Life Leads You

Dusk after daybreak, there are alleyways where no one is to be trusted—

not the jukebox arsonists; the slanted, jagged shadows slow dancing with themselves; or the low-riding bully boys pumped full of pneumatic criminality.

Should you take this way home, ensure you have eyes in the back of your head and a crescent moon tattoo on your forehead so people will mistake you for the coming evening.

As you find your way through the dark, join love’s ballet dancers as they bend and arc through the smoke of life’s charred rubble.

Empty your pockets of any leftover pities, gather what has been left behind:

ghost wing, untamed heart, bright fire.

Make something beautiful from all the world’s troubles.

The Re-Rememberer

What I remember: the blue sibilance of a sad farewell.

Shadows uttering rosaries in forsaken alleyways.

Pale silences slipping from the bodies of mannequins, painting our lips with all the words we’ve been afraid to share with one another.

Beneath a streetlight, memories selling their bodies into a slow dissolve.

Above, the moon looking so wounded, like it never had a mother.

That, and how time can often walk away from us until it is a blur,

something colored purple, a bruise in the center of our longing.

Random text message threads where the Devil tried to lure me to hell

Hey Rich, we’ve restocked our shelves with your favorite Robert Johnson records! This is only for a limited time. We look forward to seeing you soon! – D.

Hi Rich, we regret to inform you that today’s session with your therapist has been canceled due to an emergency. Not to fret! One of our trained psychopaths can see you at any time. We look forward to hearing from you soon – D.

Dear Rich, this is a payment reminder for your credit card ending with XXX2168. $666 is due immediately. Pls. follow the link to obtain directions to our office so you can pay in person – D.

Rich, you have an appointment with Dr. Dante today at 3 PM. Please arrive at 18 Lake Cocytus Ave., Mt. Purgatory Hospital. 10 mins. prior – D.

Hi Rich, don’t forget your massage is today at Sheol Salon. Please come with your flame retardant suit – D.

Awareness Airlines

Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned on the Practice Gratitude sign.

If you haven’t already done so, please stow your ego and resentments beneath the seat in front of you or an overhead bin.

Any oversized angers will need to be gate-checked before departure.

We remind you this is a non-hating flight. Hating is prohibited on the entire aircraft, including lavatories.

Racist slurs, mean tweets, sexist or homophobic slurs are not permitted by law.

If you have any concerns, please meditate with one of our flight attendants.

Thank you for flying Awareness Airlines.

Stop Me If You’ve Heard This One Before

Compassion seems like an outlaw these days; on the run, seeking shelter in a helter-skelter world:

fingerprints, DNA, voice analysis on file with the Department of Injustice.

Compassion’s picture slapped up in the ghost office, hunted down by hate mongers, deemed AmeriKKKa’s unwanted.

So criminal the way compassion can sometimes be treated.

It ain’t mushy or outta style.

Just ‘cause it puts others’ needs before yours, don’t make it wrong.

Just means your ear is tuned to an empathy symphony.

And to that music, you take the extra step, the additional action of reaching out to others—

to heal, not hurt; to unify, not defile.

No Matter Matters

No matter how many guns cry murder.

No matter how many times we poison the air with ill words and attitudes.

No matter how many times Mother Nature, and countless other women, are senselessly raped and defiled.

No matter how many times we kick, punch, and jam slugs inside harmony’s jukebox.

No matter how many times our leaders openly engage in racism, ignorance, and genocide—

the moon still shines above us.

I pray we’ll one day learn how to glow brightly in times of darkness.

In the Basement of a Question Mark

I woke up in the basement of a question mark, looking down the barrel of a loaded interrogation.

I barely had enough change to catch a bus from one breath to the next.

Luckily, my muscle memory knew more than the rest of me, just enough to put one foot in front of the other, getting me through the day.

With the right amount of moan, any of our blues can become a train, right?

We’re all waiting for the day when the dog and pony show is taken over by cool cats, right?

Questions like these plague me.

Call it the mind’s travelings, unravellings, and re-ravellings of life stories, blood treaties, and gory allegories.

All I know for sure is you gotta put your ear up close to the lips of death to hear the song of life.