Whether or not my political climate aligns with the weather of your political climate, you gotta agree that the politics of the moment has surpassed the dangers of global warming—It’s an onslaught of self-righteous rains and hurricanes of harassment. Heatwaves of hate and floods of culpability. Lies swarming like locusts and democracy ravaged beyond biblical proportions. Bravery and grace in the face of cruel storms. Tempers so flared they could melt the scales of justice out of Lady Liberty’s hand.
Now that we’ve entered society’s carnival of dark souls, we gotta worry about maniacs mistaking us for shooting galleries. Now that all the president’s grey matter has been scribed onto a grain of rice, it’s time we consider that serious food for thought. Now that everything means nothing and nothing means everything, it’s time to buy a dictionary of disaster’s undoing. Now that the jukebox of fools is blasting full volume, it’s time we spend our quarters on a far better song. Now that the womb-to-tomb express seems a much wilder ride, better to cool jazz our razzmatazz before we reach the darkside.
Put a number of female-condescending Republican senators into a room, then add a woman detailing sexual assault allegations against a GOP judge. Have her questioned by a female prosecutor for political correctness. Mix everything together vigorously to release testimony and vitriol. Around the rim of the room, rub a healthy dose of angry Democrats. Push everything together tighter when questioning gets heavy and lies start flying. Half fill the public with crushed bits of truth and sordid media soundbites. Stir it all together until any semblance of justice dissolves. Top it off with resentments, more rigged elections, and garnish with a healthy heaping of hope for a better future. Then drink up.
To be jettisoned from the shadowy cracks in society, to possess identities more meaningful than a string of numbers. To have voices loud enough to silence gunfire and political infighting. This society of freaksome flotsam. Time to jettison the jive jetsam. In this current map of reality, the dream is no longer the territory. Democracy isn’t the footpath free of lies and landmines. Better to re-write the questions to find better answers. If music soothes the savage beast, then let’s learn to tune our hearts to a symphony of sincerity.
Orange president wants to deny green cards to brown people. Blacks getting shafted by red-state whites. Pink is the hat to wear when your pus*y’s got power. You can wear yellow too, just don’t let it be your belly. Times like these, some are rolling in the green. Many others are green with envy. Poverty blues. Class warfare blues. Can’t even go online to find relief. The internet trolls are purple people eaters.
Newly minted meme tropes date old-school mime troupes. Maitais tie themselves into lover’s knots as whiskey sours sweeten. Ukrainian ukuleles play uranium melodies, while minorities get played as the minor key in society’s sonata. Dystopia is the Midol for a dark soul’s myopia. Your mind needs to be a minesweeper when traversing loaded slogans. Gotta be buried deep in the dirt to leave all the mudslinging behind. Euphoria refuses to step foot into Peoria until all migraines are loaded onto leaving trains.
I remember certain friends and loved ones; those whose storms of being bloomed with a lightning bold and bright enough to shatter tombstones into diamonds. I remember those tilt-a-whirl San Francisco nights; drinking, playing music, and busting all the bar clocks, trying to stop time. I remember the freezer burn of bad decisions; how I was scorched by cold-boned agonies until I learned how to become a brighter melody on sun’s tongue. Memories like those have tattooed me. Colored me with wonder. The tribal paint of my dreaming kin.
Captain Passive / Tantrum Man / Buzzkill Catcher / Vibe Canceller / Psychic Hider / Crimson Peckerwood / Overspending Sapien / Mixed Message Mentalist / Commander Late-Night Fast Food Run / Agent Ambivalence / Doctor Don’t Do Your To-Do List / The Vapid Vulture / The Ungodly Nap Monster / Couch Crasher / Gym Avoider / Lex Lovehandle / Spit Splat Spew / Sisyphus Siege / Clabberjabber / Bubbastasis / Retractus / Procrastinator the Nowhere Monster / Phobophobophobia / Dr. Don’t.
Some days slink across your path like a black cat, like you’re a Starbucks coffee cup with your name spelled wrong. Days when nagging pessimism becomes your second skin. Your psyche, an open grave accumulating the bones of sordid news headlines. Other days, you feel more blessed than a wadded-up 20 found in a pair of jeans. Your every scar, a poem. Every kiss, another breadcrumb on the trail leading home. Days like these are a grab bag of light, dark. Bullet, beauty rose. Hands covered in gunshot residue and the calluses of good deeds done.
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.