Inside my mind’s museum there are relics of ancient jealousies refashioned into newly minted gratitudes. Huge dinosaur bones of can’t we all just get along. Bullets taking anger management classes. Dog-eared pages of our violent history rewritten into words of love and peace. Inside my mind’s museum there are foggy San Francisco nights with poems staining their teeth like strong coffee. Chords to unwritten Ziggy Stardust songs. John Bonham drums with a bass foot as heavy as the infinity of outer space. Inside my mind’s museum the ghost of Rosa Parks wails the righteously mighty decibel of equality while sitting at the front of the cosmic bus, refusing to get off until she gets off on the sweet song of let freedom ring.
Hard to know where to start when searching out a cure for the diseased doings plaguing the world. All the hate and savagery packing brass knuckles, pummeling higher consciousness in alleyways once leading to enlightenment. Citizens stripped of human rights, fed a diet of freshly murdered lies. These days you gotta have a tender heart shielded in Kevlar. Gotta avoid dark shadows wielding gats. Dodge the bullets wanting to make booty calls with your brain. Hard to know where to start when searching out a cure for it all. Reach down deep inside. Grab a healthy dose of soul medicine. Get clean with yourself. Shake off the IV drip of all these nightmares.
than squander your fortunes on the past. It’s best not to leave muddy footprints on the welcome mat of love. It’s best to speak slowly and carefully when traveling through the city of deliberation lest your tongue get ticketed for reckless driving. It’s best not to rent an apartment in low-class nirvana where false prophets speak in monotone and wear stinky shoes of extinction. It’s best to build a hula hoop from a beautiful tune that’ll keep you moving and grooving for days. It’s best not to hate the rain. It may one day lead your flower mind to bloom.
In the hate-filled streets, dissenting ideas travel underground so they will not be burned or banned by the light of day. Love carries a switchblade to ward off pain and heartbreak. Rebellious electric guitars send cranked amps on raucous midnight missions to shred all toxic laws, replace them with sweet music. Some ask how will they know which way to go to escape from beneath the heavy shadows of disgust and resentment. Some ask how will they recognize fellow truth-seekers along the way. The history of light is in the eyes of those who are drawn to it.
If you crave the mention of sheep, try the Book of Revelation. If revelations are what you ache for, try holding a lightbulb above your head for inspiration. Better yet a lightning bolt. If lightning and thunder are your thing, it might be assumed you love rainy days. If you thirst for rainy days, try San Francisco. Just don’t leave your heart there. If hearts are what you’d die for, try being Cupid for a day. But be careful, don’t get charged with a weapons offense for carrying a bow and arrow in public. If the love of the public is what you need, try handing out free money. If being free is what you desire, I wish you all the best.
What of the clothing we believe hangs silently in our closets? Late at night things like shirts and skirts bump and grind, grow intertwined. Their arms and ruffles tangle up in loving tussles. Shirts and skirts bear fabric that’s static-free and fantastic. Cling lovingly to flesh like a sweet childhood memory. Shirts and skirts created by all races and denominations. Hallelujah the shirts and skirts creating their own United Nations. Shirts that become sad and wrinkled when skirts slip off their hanger. Skirts that grow two sizes too small when shirts shred from excessive wear. Shirts and skirts boogie till they drop. Right into the laundry basket for a good clean wash.
Ain’t nuthin’ but due process in the court of my heart. My adjectives provide solid evidence for the humble & gracious. Verbs battle racism & inequality. Nouns are all the people, places & things that I will fight to the death to protect. My judge, jury & hexecutioner got a flask filled with sass, guzzle triple shots of double trouble. Reflexes steady, hands ready to defend Mother Nature & Mother Liberty, encase their dignity in bulletproof glass. Some days my words pull double duty fighting an uphill battle against our collective psyche’s downsizing. Other days my spirit be singing the brightest of tunes—a thousand watts of innocence on the dark side of the moon.
A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, but not as perilous as a lot of stupidity in high places. Blood is thicker than water unless the water is from Flint. If you’re as busy as a bee you’re probably not dead as a door nail. Behind every great woman is a great man behind the eight ball. Don’t jump the gun when the jury’s still out. Poetic justice is far mightier than the powers that be. If you’re a chip off the old block of someone with a chip on their shoulder then your deus ex machina will probably make no bones about spilling the milk of human kindness and not crying about it. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks unless you’re barking up the wrong tree, in which case all bets are off.
Now it’s goose stepping white supremacists instead of a rock n rollin’ bitch for you. Now it’s a knife in the back instead of a ray gun to the head. Now it’s a racist ass making America “great again” instead of your space face close to mine. Treason and a lack of reason instead of laying the real thing on me, baby. Now it’s typo-ridden Twitter bullies trolling the internet instead of spending time in the church of man, such a holy place to be. Now it’s every moment feeling more and more like a blackhole nightmare. Oh for those times when we could freak out in a moonage daydream.
No need for 3D glasses when the wolves are at your door. When Twitter bots infect people with political dementia—all those lies and subterfuge making it harder and harder to remember what the truth looks like anymore. No need for 3D glasses when Mother Liberty can’t even recognize herself in the mirror. Bound, gagged, assuming all immigrants guilty upon entering her newly renovated Hellis Island. No need for 3D glasses when still another innocent black boy is killed by the police, when racial profiling is more prominent than Facebook profiles. Those wolves at your door aren’t leaving anytime soon. Hear them howl. And I ain’t talking that famous book of poetry.