Morning sashays the blue-sky runway, dazzling kisses sunnyside up. Her go-go booted truth, far from aloof. She vamps before our eyes, gleaming with warmth and star-studded beauty shine. She makes everything bold and golden. Her rise-and-shine song: sweet, sonorous peekaboo. Not broken-hearted boo-hoo. Everywhere you look, splendor and serenity. Thank you and pretty please. Ain’t no need for the morning birds and roses to hide behind flimsy alibis or hardened bulletproof glass.
Glorious angels circle the LA night sky. Their beating wings scatter deadbeats. Their healing kisses dampen the siren’s cry. Across town, Kindness finally gets a star on Hollywood Boulevard while high in the hills, wolves prowl, spread howl like bloodseed. Downtown there is song, dance, and pills with the names of saints to send you into radiant dreams. The mistress of well-dressed ennui prowls Westside streets. Empty Eastside lots confess the names of the dead they’ve long concealed. In Leimert Park, they’re serving up words fresh off poetry’s meaty bone. Down on Skid Row, every line in every homeless person’s face reveals all the joys and pains ever known to this city.
This last year with Trump has felt like the Constitution has been used to light a dumpster fire. He scams with crooked truths and a hangman’s noose. Peddles snake oil like it’s the crude oil to make this country rich. On his first day in office, he slipped Mother Nature a roofie, began raping the land of its natural resources. Idiocy, idolatry, and insensitivity are his holy trinity. He’s elevated hate to an executive-level cabinet position. Has built a new level in Dante’s Inferno to include one of his hotels. Got one hand on the nuclear button, the other on his phone. Uses Twitter like he’s drunk dialing the world. All this and so much more to “make America great again.”
If you rain my brain, I’ll sunshine your spine. If you green my spleen, I’ll turn your gravity into levity. More autumns of awesomeness, less winters of splinters. More seasons of reason, less centuries of idiocies. May our roads tango wherever we go. May we jitterbug time’s dance floor to starlight bright. If you unbummer my summer, I’ll save your fall from any fall in the down and up of life.
Populate the walls of hope’s abandoned mansion with surety and soul art. Smudge the empty rooms with sagesong and safety. Cleanse your body of any misgivings. Rub salve on the rope burns encircling Mother Nature’s neck. Do your part to right all the wrongs making the world’s blood flow counterclockwise. Pick any rusted locks blocking compassion and goodwill. Refuse to follow the Judas goat leading society to the slaughterhouse. Never consider yourself forever wounded, even when old scars cling to your flesh like kin.
We’ve walked through fire, crawled through barbed wire, have survived car crashes, and love gone wrong. We’ve experienced the death of family, friends, and pets. Our psyches have suffered the swords of injustice. We’ve had our imaginations found guilty by a jury of the ignorant. Criminal karma has had sex with dogma, leaving us to bear the cosmically screwed burdens of the treasonous and reasonless. Yet here we stand, on the other side of that darkness. Slightly battered, but stronger for the journey. With a name akin to steel, and a heart like light.
The rush of cars on the early morning highway: sounds like a pitchman listing off a medication’s side effects. And so we have this new day, a wonder drug, a panacea. The rising sun: a fiery pill on the tongue. If any early morning side effects—grumpiness or grogginess—foreshadow a battlefield in your mind, immediately curl up with a pet, loved one, or good book. As you enter this new day, Mother Nature highly advises you leaving any firearms at the door. You, and others, should feel blessed, not bullet-ridden. Being, not bleeding. Sometimes life’s best medicine is simply life itself. To successfully get from one breath to the next.
If you write obituaries on your inner eyelids, you’ll see death in your sleep. If you unguitar your near and far, your gone song will remain the same. If you play five-card crime, expect to win a bit of sin. If your car runs on memories, one day it’ll forget how to get up and go. If your hunting dog of happiness grows too tired to seek, you better discover new ways to find glee.
Kiss me one more time beneath the goon fright. Scold me in your arms. Blister beat nothings in my ear. Glove me ’til the end of rhyme. My none and homely, you break my knees weak. You snake my heart skitter skatter. Will you scary me? Will you slay with me all fright long?
Here comes Monday morning strutting down the weekday runway. She’s wearing gloomy boots, got her moody blues cranked loud. Her real name is Shazam Kablam, comes from the land of Dontmesswithmestan. Talk smack about her, you’ll wind up eating a brass-knuckle sandwich, and kicked to the other side of Sunday. But if you treat her right, she’ll make your Monday morning feel like Saturday night. All she wants is a little respect. Wake up on the right side of the bed with her, she’ll suck the sweet outta honey, then deliver it in a kiss when you least expect it.