Wisdom From the Last Fortune Cookie In the Bag

For those weighted down by the bass-heavy beat of Monday blues.

Those whose affections no longer have that new love smell.

Those whose slumber party youth has long since walked the plank into seas of adult miseries.

Those with machine guns stuck between their teeth.

Those whose souls feel like the black hole of Calcutta.

Those whose shining sense of inner wonder has been converted into a dilapidated strip mall of irony.

Realize that anything is possible.

Notice the lusty water puddles joyfully swapping fluids before evaporation.

Before it gets too late

let’s meet somewhere beyond the everyday—

At a rollerskating rink playing “Boogie Oogie Oogie“ and “Nothing Compares 2 U“ back to back.

On a Venice, Italy gondola playing “Dueling Banjos“ on ukuleles.

At hole #3 of the Can Can Wonderland mini golf course.

At a Coney Island arcade, our pockets stuffed with tokens.

Frolicking in haystacks of forsaken phone booths.

Beneath the Tiffany Dome in Chicago, listening to Wilco cassettes on an old Sony Walkman.

Pressed like leaves between pages 8 & 9 of Ferlinghetti‘s Poetry as Insurgent Art.

Roaming the underground canals of Paris.

In the Hidden Valley desert creating interpretive dances based on the shape of rock formations and Joshua trees.

In an unfurnished apartment in the city of imagination where the home we make is ours.

What the river-voiced hallelujah sings

I want to return to innocence & from innocence to shadow. I want to return to shadow & from shadow to river. I want to return to river & from river to the crossroads. I want to return to the crossroads & from the crossroads to song. I want to return to song & from song to your heart. I want to return to your heart & from your heart to a home.

Tattoo You

Then there was that tattoo I got to cover up the other tattoo meant to cover all the mistakes I’ve ever made in my life.

All to say, sometimes you gotta learn the hard way that no amount of ink, no amount of eagles, anchors, or tribal designs can conceal all your gaffes and snafus.

Better to make your mistakes their own tattoos—

the caring-too-much-what-other-people-think-about-you unicorn tattoo,

the repeating-things-that-don’t-work dolphin tattoo,

the taking-yourself-too-seriously moon tattoo.

The ink is drying on a new tattoo written across my forehead in Sanskrit.

It translates into “the comfort zone is where dreams go to die.”

Cloud flower

No clouds were tortured or killed in the making of these words.

Look above. Each one bursts into song—

a cotton candy chorus line across a sky-blue stage.

The radio says a storm is coming our way. The radio says that between us, there isn’t enough light in our pockets to keep the night away.

Look above. The clouds can be anything we dream—

bird, castle, daisy.

Daisy.

Even Frankenstein was fascinated by flowers.

Well?

Well what?

Should we do it?

Sure. Why not.

Okay. How’s this?

Lower.

How ’bout now?

Higher.

What about—

Perfect.

You think?

Yep.

Really?

Absolutely. That’s the perfect place to hang the wall calendar.

Doomsday and Barbiedom

Barbie opens the front door of her Malibu beach house. Her face brightens like a thousand suns.

“Thanks for stopping by,” she says. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it.“

Standing in front of her is Oppenheimer—thin-faced, porkpie hat, eyes singing a troubled hallelujah. “How can I help you?“ he asks.

Barbie explains how she’s admired his work for years, his studies in nuclear physics and quantum mechanics. “Math class is tough!“ she says.

She explains that she’d like Mattel to fashion Oppenheimer into a doll to teach Barbie Land and humanity about the perils of nuclear weapons and war.

“And this doll,“ she adds, “won’t have blood on his hands.“

Oppenheimer smirks, recalling his famous quote. “Not bad,” he says.

Barbie beams. “So does that mean yes?”

Oppenheimer surveys the Malibu beach house—the photos on the walls portraying Barbie’s time as a doctor, astronaut, rap musician, and paleontologist. And, of course, the decor—everything Pepto-Bismol pink.

“Let me give it some thought,“ Oppenheimer says.

The two continue talking well into the early morning hours, discussing the finer points of doomsday and Barbiedom.

Heat

Extreme heat. Mindnumbing heat.

Heat making people do strange things—

hardcore graffiti artists getting day jobs animating Disney movies. Barbie trading in her heels for prison shoes.

Soul-crushing heat. High-pressure heat.

Rain getting paid top dollar to make private appearances at parties.

Everyday citizens standing on street corners armed with super soakers.

Body-baking heat. El Niño-blaming heat.

Waterparks more popular than the Eiffel Tower. Climate change sweating, wishing it could change into something cooler.

Riot-minded heat. Hell-footed heat.

Countless people half dead in the heat, hoping to become ice cubes in the afterlife.

If books powered automobiles

I’d have a Bukowski wagon, a Didion pickup.

My vehicle would rant Corso and Wanda Coleman when speeding down freeways. Meditate upon Rumi and Gwendolyn Brooks when idling at red lights.

Kerouac and Carolyn Cassady for road trips. Joy Harjo combustion.

When stuck in traffic, my car could trade summer reading lists with your car—

maybe I could add a few more memoirs to my mileage, some Proust for a tuneup.

Machines running on James Joyce or David Foster Wallace would get 100 mpg.

Banned books would fuel rebel racers.

All vehicles, regardless of make or model, would be considered smart cars.

Season of Goodbyes

Whenever the triggerman’s fingers twitch, it’s the season of goodbyes.

Whenever the noose’s metronome keeps hang time, songs bleed pain.

If you turn the stereo down low enough, you can hear the downtrodden aching for an antidote to oppression.

You can understand how hard it is to change horses mid-breath when the final breath is being choked from your body.

On the streets, I hear rumblings that the gun has taken a shot at writing poetry.

Perhaps it can teach bullets how to sing Ave Maria.