Nothing’s What it Once Was

Cars once used for leisurely Sunday drives are now killing machines. KKK extremists once dressed in clean white sheets to conceal soiled souls now parade out in the open. Bigotry, racism, and hatred crawl out of the gutter. Those putrid pimps peddle their poisons to the lowest bidder. Such a bitter taste on the tongue when sweet love leaves the equation. Nothing adds up to equal anything good. 

What They Don’t Want

People of all colors & creeds living together in peace. Guns & bombs melted down to paperweights. Wisdom, equanimity. The great minds of our generation gathered together, exploring ways for us to live in health, wealth & harmony. Libraries of tranquility where there are never any late fees. Curing epidemics & stamping out systemic racism & greed–that's what they don't want: for everyone to live comfortably in their own skin. The human spirit, a bright billboard along life's highway. That's what they don't want, that bunch of small-minded, thin-skinned, dark-hearted crushers of love. 

My Kind of Bombs

Pet bombs. Poetry bombs. Bombs of lazy summer days & intoxicating sunset bombs. Beer bombs, water bombs. Geranium & sunflower bombs. Van Gogh starry night bombs. The kids are alright & light my fire bombs. Enormous bombs engorged with gorgeousness. Bombs exploding with civil rights & mighty James Brown beats. Peace for president bombs. Anti "fire and fury" bombs. Bach, Beethoven & Brahms bombs. Only you can save us from North Korea, Dennis Rodman bombs. H-bombs where the H stands for happiness. A-bombs where the A stands for adoration.

Something About the Dark

Evening comes our way, all lightning-haired and starry-eyed. She's an elegy, not an effigy. Clarity, not calamity. Even when streets are flooded with deceit, she burns sweet with song. Even when mercilessness spreads its pestilence, she still shines her diamond bright. No smoke and mirrors. Only hope and miracles. Here comes evening, all heaven-eyed and moon mighty. Tattooed across her heart, the words we long to hear: Even in the dark, love still dwells. 

There’ll Be Those Days

Days when lunatics rip wings off butterflies, when beauty is grounded, and madmen ride doomsday sidesaddle. Days when violence, treachery, and bigotry are the unholy trinity. When intuition's GPS is on the fritz, leaving us in blind alleyways–bugged, mugged, drugged. Here's to a shot of blackbird whiskey to sing away the blues. A North Star for a third eye to guide us brightly home. Here's to realizing that nowhere can be everywhere when witnessing the world through soul-colored glasses. 

Something to Soothe All Savage Breasts and Beasts

Every so often I need something to lift my spirits. Maybe a metaphysical miracle bra to present my mood in the most appealing way possible. Or perhaps I need to visit a rehab of hope. Taste a juicy hallelujah on the tongue. Double doses of dynamism and downdogs. An inner music to ward off enemies and ruin, soothe all savage breasts and beasts. All my wilted and worrisome feelings touched by equanimity's green thumb. Spitballs of wisdom hitting me in my third eye. Endless downpours of love to wash away all the dirt of this raging world's bumper to bummer traffic.

What’s My Wig

If I were to ever sport a wig I'd want a huge shock of Einstein's e=mc 2 hair. Or maybe a wig that's a luscious rush of LA sunsets; one so bright it camouflages with my baby's smile. A wig that's an equal opportunity accepter of other wigs. A new and improved self-driving wig. One that can walk on water, should I ever find myself going under. Don't want no terrorist or bomb-scare hair, no swastika or white sheet for a wig. Don't wanna be weighed down by all that hate. I want a wig jampacked with plenty of James Brown get-down. Insatiable and sensational. Full of Jheri curls, not gerrymandering. A wig filled with dreaming and believing, bopping and popping, full out rockin' atop my noggin.

Baby Maraca

Baby maraca shakes the blues away. Transforms guillotines to trampolines, jump & shout & sway. Baby maraca sings bliss-beats that transcend. Makes apocalypse skip & flip, live love 'till the very end. 

She Died on the Mirror Highway 

She died on the mirror highway. Beauty was a gun, she said, that never was her friend. She died on the mirror highway, a crow orchestra singing over her bones. She died on the mirror highway, pockets empty of holiness or home. Beauty was a gun, she said, that shoulda been her friend. Blow her mind out in the bang-bang boogie light. She died on the mirror highway, listen to her sweet ghost moan. Says to look for her in the lost-soul phonebook, where all the unlisted go. 

The Luck

The luck is finding a lottery ticket granting you millions in sanity and serenity. The grace is never being disinherited by breath, or having your path crossed by a convention of black cats. The equanimity is dancing with machine guns and guillotines, and still coming out alive; a good head on your shoulders, and a few new moves to one day use when you’re in a pinch. The magic is having all your scars and sorrows unsickened and unpunished, the mind’s madhouse converted into a playground. The music of it all is transforming adversity into symphony, cruelty into consonance, and bombshatter blues into the sweet beat of a jukebox heart.