Of Sirens and Slumberdom

The savage delirium of passing sirens reminds me that new emergencies are always just an echo away. Sweet child, sleep soundly through it all. Navigate your dreams below the radar that detects death, sickness, and sorrow. Wander through your world of slumberdom, where grace is the landscape and flowers rise from the richness of serenity’s soil. Allow breath to follow you like the tender beast that it is—shadowing your heart, beat by beat, footstep by footstep; never running away when you call its name.


Once Upon an LA Night

Wicked & wondrous LA, with your honeysuckle breath & bullet deaths, your starlets & starlight, last-minute decisions & rear-end collisions. You’re either blowing kisses to the dreamers or crank-calling the broken-hearted. Wicked & wondrous LA, with your liposuctioned ego & wounds that never heal. Your songbirds are assassins. Your treacherous storms yield to clear blue skies more sparkling than jewels. Wicked & wondrous LA, your lost lovers exchange memories in dark alleyways, mistaking one another for home. In the evening streetlight, the illuminated faces of your city’s inhabitants are small slices of heaven fallen from the sky.

When Crooked-Legged Lightening Wanders Through Your Heart Garden

Rough days when equilibrium’s equation equals zero. Like sleep injected into the blood, an inertia blurring one’s bright, blue horizons. Rough days when seedgrief blossoms into a bounty far beyond one’s ability to harvest melancholy into blessings. Soon will come the rupture, the burn, when problems will crumble and turn to ash. Then, love will gather the syllables meant for our mouthes; the words hiding like diamonds in the rough boundaries of shattered belonging.

Once Upon a Dark Heart

America struggles with itself in an existential tug-of-war. Freedom, civility, and common decency on one side. Idiocy, white supremacy, and sovereignty on the other. To make matters worse, we’ve got the King of Bankruptcy as our poor man’s Pied Piper, leading us into the depths of ruination nation. When I say America has a black heart, I mean that it has a dark side. I also mean that color has always been at the heart of our history. Lynching ropes choking off hopes when there shoulda been the full breath of brotherhood. Crosses burning on lawns when we shoulda had a far better grasp on the religion of benevolence.

Aural Honey to Feed the Silent Void

Songbirds herald sunrise. Their melodies burble forth, making everything a symphony. Those feathered arias scribe beauty onto the void of a world alone and fractured from itself. The sun rises a little higher, anoints one and all with a taste of healing gold. Songbirds follow suit; offer a voice to those who have no voice. When they fly away, their music still lingers in the air. It is a hymn that slips between the cracks to guard the heart—aural honey whose sweetness deepens with every listening.

When Wounds Fell Away Like Rain

I remember that day when the wounds fell from our bodies. When they hit the street, they broke apart like raindrops and sparkled everything clean. Even Death washed all its dirt away that day. It sang while it was showering. Reminiscing about those times when it was young and free. When every moment was filled with joy. Every moment a parade of peace and breath.

Another Day

It’s another day of cold-blooded bureaucrats & protest-souled heroes whose fearlessness sings fortissimo. Another day of misery practicing its blindfolded knife-throwing trick while everyday people discover their inner superhero by warding off naysayers & joyslayers to wield random acts of kindness. Some say it’s a dog-eat-dog world while others take their dogs for loving walks in the park. Some were born from the bulletwomb while others make it their life’s mission for inner peace to play DJ in the boogie-down room. Another day for villains to spread poison while our everyday superheroes protect passions. Another day. Another day.

ain’t it oh so solid gold

how a certain radio song can be your passport to a better day. when a well-remembered melody can blast through the massive feedback loop of one blues after another and leave you feeling clean. ain’t it just like that song, fueled by heartache and high-octane, to plant its roots deep down inside you at the crossroads of memory and mercy. that place where you were once just a breath-seed in your mama’s belly. her heartbeat drum, the first rhythm to rock you to your core. soar you to the top of the charts to ring in your soulful song of life.

Honesty and Elbow Grease

Dress the heart in white light. Unlock the mind, let it roam naked and free through imagination’s endless avenues. Never mind if the spirit gets dirty while rubbing up against the grime of these times. All good things come clean with a little elbow grease and an honesty whose striptease only gets better and better the more truth reveals itself on the tongue’s dance floor.

In the Hours Before Sunrise

I was a double rainbow that believed itself to be a tombstone that believed itself to be a rose. I was satisfaction and surrender, the North Star in witness protection after observing one too many crimes in the city streets below. In the predawn hours I was birdsong and a troubled blues at the crossroads. Angel fire and wish fulfillment, loaded dice and a deal made with the devil. I was the color wheel of love, grief, and hope. A ghost sheet hung out on a clothesline, billowed back to life by a soft and fragrant seance of breeze. In the hours before sunrise.