If I were the king of five-finger discounts I’d shoplift all bullets from guns, I’d shoplift heartbreak from broken love. If I could, I’d shoplift evil from our human condition. I’d shoplift wars, make people talk and listen. I’d shoplift the forgetting from aged minds. I’d shoplift the chains and hate that bind. I’d shoplift the tears from babies’ eyes. I’d shoplift the pain from separated families’ cries.
Our happily ever afters may not be like we once thought, but at least we can rewrite our stories with style, class, and personal panache. We can compose a shoes-off, wiggle-our-toes romp of soul-fandango’ing in finely tuned rhythm skins. A song of humming and strumming, like a perfectly flung Frisbee soaring gracefully on air. A life boomeranging back to us, complete with a well-harvested journey; sharing the fruits of all our labors with family, friends, and neighbors. An in-tune and fully bloomed version of beauty and possibility. A life we can press our lips to. A kiss that’s a meeting of dipping and darting tongues; a whip-smart and slippery slish-sloshing of oh my gosh what a wonderful penning to a beginning I never want to end.
when sweetness is pummeled by wickedness, when deceit is a virus leaked into a life of non-artificial intelligence, that’s when we bust a major move. Makes Superfly look like a repugnant ant. Our superhero trinity is dignity, civility, and equality. We cease the roar of guns and the blinging of racist dreams. We put empathy into the devil’s symphony. We re-bend crooked laws, fashion them into fairness. We are boot-stomping, music-romping, sweat-soaked warriors. We mosh in the pit out of which all strong soul survive.
The bright blue fingers of morning play a grand piano made of clouds. A loving breeze backrubs mountains, sighs of ease whisper towards sea. Dogs bark, daisies rise. All wounds and worries release impending nightblindness. With every tic toc, time sheds still another torture once imposed upon our lives. This bountiful day takes a drug that will make the sun set a little slower.
When sky shares its alphabet, light is the first and last letter of its lasting language. Every cloud is a syllable speaking the shape of a thousand and more things. Insects, comets, and kites teach us the words of the here and gone. New lexicons are built from rain. The wail of thunder, the fire-hammered flash of lightning release our voices from gravity-bound burdens. Rainbows and auroras shower our every utterance with technicolor parades. Mothering night births our grim thoughts into twinkling stars. We sing pure freedom. Our voices fly like birds into the bright bell of another rising sun.
Football players uninvited to the White House. Reporters uninvited to the White House. Joy, love, respect aren’t welcome back. The same with tolerance, compassion, and intelligence. These days, ain’t much good hanging ‘round those White House halls. Hate and toxic logic spread like hot grease on a wicked skillet. Vivacity’s movable feast has been replaced with a famine of idiocy. No telling who or what’s next to be uninvited to a presidential event. Better hold on tight to your party hats as we ride the wild tilt of this troubled world.
Goodbye to the broken heart. Goodbye to the heart that crossdresses as death; the heart that chases ambulances, cheats at Monopoly, plagiarizes skywriting. Goodbye to the heart of fools gold and busted pianos, book burning and unlearning. Goodbye to the heart that beats a crooked path in the blood. Hello to the heart that beats a truer, steadier song. Rise and continually repeat yourself.
People blaming their bad behavior on Twinkies. People blaming their bad behavior on Ambien. People blaming their bad behavior on alcohol, sleepwalking, or sexsomnia. People blaming their bad behavior on the moon. People blaming their bad behavior on the weather. People blaming their bad behavior on a song, a book, or a movie they saw. People blaming their bad behavior on affluenza. People blaming their bad behavior on the idiot defense. People blaming their bad behavior on other people‘s bad behavior. People blaming their bad behavior on everyone and everything but themselves.
To the fallen heroes who’ve perished in the line of battle, those who remind us that it takes great courage and selflessness to fight for ideals far greater than ourselves. May our appreciation for your service be as enduring as the land you were defending. May we be mindful of our existing freedoms—those ideals for which you sacrificed your lives. May we, the living, continue to fight for the preservation of democracy in our own audacious way.
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.