Echo the North Star

It starts with that one voice refusing to remain quiet. One serving as an obstruction to compassion’s deconstruction. One that’s a brass-knuckled fist in the face of malevolence. One shredding the hollow dark into ribbons of incandescent everything. It starts with that one voice and leads to many. Voices crying out all this pain and injustice is not a way to live. Voices that are X’s marking the spot where promises refuse to break. Voices echoing the North Star and the safest way home.


Autopsy of Democracy

Upon reviewing the autopsy of democracy, will you mention that it died a slow protracted death? Will you reveal that its stomach was riddled with lies, its intestines marred with embezzlement, its esophagus savaged with the cancer of cruelty? Will you overlook the fact that its body committed many racist acts but was continually found innocent by a jury of its peers? Upon reviewing the autopsy of democracy, ask yourself if the body somewhat resembles a black body swinging from a tree. Ask yourself if the savage noose marks around its neck will preclude it from having an open casket ceremony.

This Ice Age of Hate

Some hold a lit match to Mother Liberty’s robe, all too eager to ignite the powder keg that is America; burn away what’s left of democracy; dress it in red, white, and bruises. Some have no sympathy for civility and equality; slap locks on love, throw it in Guantanamo; feed it nothing but canned cruelty and freshly murdered lies. America has become too big for taming and too small to long endure this relentless ice age of hate. A deep chill grows in these bones as benevolence gets converted into still another battlefield where the kind-hearted are continually downed by unfriendly fire. In times like these, I say bring on the weapons of reason. Bring on the weapons of peace.

One Crazed Tweet Away

Frenzied fornication between age-old hate and recrimination produces generations of bombs sprouting forth from the loins of war. That BOOM BOOM you hear emanating from the torture room translates into maddened penetrations into endless combinations of devastation. We can be shocked into tearlessness by it all, or inspired by fearlessness to commit great acts of beauty and benevolence. No time to think about our differences in sexual preference, skin color, or country of origin when the things that can obliterate us are just one crazed tweet away. Time to steal away all the world’s arrows and slings so we can stand loud and proud, sing winged zingers of wheee!


May our hearts never cage nor condemn the birds of sweetness. May their melodies inspire us to sing our lives in the key of grace major. May our minds long linger in fields of remembrance, trading memories with one another; life’s mysteries revealed in the unified flowering of we. May our fists unwar their grip from bombs. May our actions nectar guns into a loving sweet, transforming bullets into bright little beasts worthy of kisses.


People dying from disease. Dying for clean water to drink. People dying for a kind word, or hello. No extra shot of racism with their Starbucks americano. People dying for a fight. Dying from a bullet, fist, or fright. People dying for appreciation; less taxation, more honest representation. Dying of depression. Dying for the next presidential election. People dying from being undernourished, overstimulated, discombobulated. People dying for truth. Quadraphonic equality and a freedom-ringing groove. People dying to love, to give, and dance. People dying to live again. People dying to live again.

How to Approach Your Inner Child When It’s Wearing Headphones

1) Wear a Sigmund Freud rubber mask. 2) Approach calmly, carefully, with your emotional baggage not too heavily packed. 3) Mouth words like “symbiotic,” “cooperative,” and “reconciliation.” 4) If the Sigmund Freud rubber mask doesn’t work, try Scooby Doo or Betty Boop. Definitely not Jabba the Hut. 5) Wear your own headphones, ignore your inner child. 6) When your inner child isn’t looking, plug into its mix. 7) Listen deeply. Feel the rhythms of everything wonderful and wounded. 8) Should your inner child ask you to dance, strip away all self-consciousness, and move. The only one watching is you.

If Kissing Were a Mathematical Formula

If kissing were a mathematical formula, the equation of a circle would equal the shape of your puckered lips—an elliptical sweetness whose radius is centered at the origin of bliss. Any and all equivalent chord theorems would refer to your joy’s intuited music—songs soothing savage global anxieties into a geo-born geometry whose main function is to create an earth that is beautiful and round. An earth that graciously bears humanity’s weight, along with providing an error-free formula stating that true love can exist, just like the presence of your perfect-circle kiss.

The Very Un-American Mall of AmeriKKKa

Shopping for a new nightmare at the Un-American Mall of AmeriKKKa? Lynching ropes and semi-automatic weapons are always fifty percent off. Waterboarding demonstrations are held hourly in the parking lot. Join the National Guard in the food court as they build a wall around El Pollo Loco to separate the Mexicans and Mexican food sympathizers from Mrs. Fields, Hot Dog on a Stick, and Subway. Take advantage of Torture Tuesdays where a new race, gender, or religion is maligned and brutalized. And don’t forget—the Disney “It’s a Small World” ride has been replaced by “Welcome to Our World of Zenophobia, Homophobia, and Philophobia All Topped Off With an Indomitable Sense of Ignorance, Paranoia, and Conspiracy Theories.”