Psychopaths and straight-razor Romeos prowl the streets. So, too, cruise the altruistic and heroic, their hearts doubling as peace-bound GPS’s. When hitchhiking these streets, know that suffering and contentment walk side by side. Those with old, bespectacled eyes of good intentions can still see clearly enough to fashion rifle barrels into halos. Just like those with newly minted, counterfeit smiles will greet you with a handshake, while their other hand twists neckties into hanging ropes.
In a language of severe weather, Mother Nature tells us she’s getting sicker and sicker. Polluted waters are the blood running backwards through her raped-jewel landscape. Holes in the atmosphere are the cysts on her lungs offering us fewer breaths of cool blue sky. When she sings, an aria of earthquakes and melting ice caps flood and quiver her voice. Deforestation and overpopulation leave her naked and weighted. Through it all, Mother Nature manages to uplift and awake. Heal and resurrect. Her song is the pained honey singing us sweetly into each new day.
Hurricane Florence, you diabolic beast surge unchained from the dungeon of climate change. Defuse your atom bomb of mighty winds and storm. Curl up in the palm of my hand as if you were a drop of rain. Hurricane Florence, you fatal spark thrown from Mother Nature’s menacing engine. Instead of malice, give us the gift of calmer seas. With every turn of your cruel ballet, release yourself from the whirl of your watery grave.
We’ll bind our scars into shields. We’ll link our sorrows into chains. We’ll forge our tears into spears. We’ll battle dark forces with guns of grace. We’ll rattle the bullies with voices of joy. We’ll combat deceit with promises kept. We’ll rumble the day, we’ll tumble the night. We’ll beat down the doors with boulders of light. Until the walls of hatred come tumbling down.
If you carefully listen to the fine print at the end of most every human breath, you’ll discover a song of life. A thumping, pumping, bump & grind of Why Can’t We All Just Get Along. It’s a chorus with many voices—some rage more raucous than graffiti on freshly painted walls. Others are more sublime, like kindness making a 2 am booty call to your inner being. Still others choose to deny our song’s existence. Say it’s a ghost, white as sheets they wear to Klan rallies. Yet all that hate won’t make our song go away. That beat don’t need a pill to keep it rock hard and steady. C’mon now, cancha feel it move you. Love is the axis upon which spins the record of our boldly playing hearts.
Our Lady of the Angels leans back in her LA River bed. Her lush palm-noir hair spreads across her pillow, halos her sparkling face. Her freeway-exit fingers trace city maps along our spines. Gasoline runs through her veins. She’s four-hundred horses under the hood. She likes a slow jam on fast streets. Mansions and Mercedes, whiskey and Smith & Wessons. Tangled in sweat and sin-soaked sheets, she asks us to stay a little longer. She says her secrets keep their own secrets. Her scars bear their own scars.
Getting a little lighter on my feet from dodging the avalanches of society’s continual calamities. Daily onslaughts of broken truths and refurbished fictions. People so busy cutting Nike symbols outta their socks they barely notice the crippling heat from the high-noon swastika sun. Gaunt-faced furies, profligates and false prophets minted in misery. The man behind the curtain is no longer the Wizard of Oz but the Wielder of Uzis. While cruelty wears a face for the ages, I choose to take a knee on the field of my higher angels.
You’re doing 95 on the outskirts of What’s Life Really Mean Anyway. You look in your rearview mirror, spot something tailgating you. Looks like a half-ton crush of sucker punches; trepidation treading water in a tsunami of broken promises. Then you realize it’s a joy as wide as the wingspan of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Freebird. You ease your foot off the gas, let the feeling overtake you. Then it happens in a flash, a hummingbird heartbeat. No longer do you feel like you’re accident bait for life’s ambulance. Your scowl supersizes into a smile. Your every tendon, wish, and blood oath alchemizes with morning air and suddenly you feel like the day is yours. Like you hold the key to every cloud’s silver lining.
Brokedown Car Blues sound like a story told in reverse, first-person deceased. Brokedown Car Blues taste like a double-decker cemetery dirt sandwich. Brokedown Car Blues smell like every day is garbage-truck Monday. Brokedown Car Blues look like a black cat crossing your bank account. Brokedown Car Blues feel like a hearse is travelling your heart’s highway. Lordy, no, don’t give us any more Brokedown Car Blues.
The way you hold this country hostage is like the wispy hair on your head. Every one of your blowhard gusts makes everything a shambles. Yeah, you’re a pig sty in the eye of civil liberties. A four-lane heart attack on the highway to the freedom of the press. You bring new N-words to life: Narcissist, Negativist, Nuclear-Nixon Nightmare. Even in death, McCain double-trumped the audience size and adulation of your doomsday inauguration. You can Twitter your days away insulting the FBI, DOJ, and Democrats. But here’s a fact: while you’re trying to convince us you’re the poor soul suffering the pains of political pillory, the one getting the last laugh is dear old Hillary.