Wondrous sunrise, generous donor of auspicious & flaming DNA, inject your new-day euphoria into the bloodstream of this toxic world. Transform warring speech into a heaven-seared dialect. Hickey hate with your serenity-lipsticked bite marks. For those who’ve been consigned to overcast oblivion, illuminate their mental state, luster & exhilarate their determination’s filibuster. Fistbump us with your fat golden knuckles. Bruise us with beauty. Shine a whole lotta love into our lives.
My kissable cuddle muffin / My babynape cupcake / My chunky-thighed cherry pie / My tiny-fingered lady finger / My moon-eyed angel delight / My full-cheeked molten chocolate cake / My bubbly babbling bonbon / Baby, oh, baby / Give me some more of your love s’more.
So amazing that silence continues to follow its code of quiet. That our two legs haven’t walked out from beneath us to seek their own repose on sunny beaches. So mindblowing that our pets have stayed so faithfully by our sides, refusing to walk off with all our money and silver. That kindness can kindle kisses into kinetically creative cancan dancers cavorting carefree across our meaty carcasses. So fantastic that our blood doesn’t experience road rage while racing through our bodies. That our hand-me-down history can still find moments of time for us to wear that are comfortable, carefree, and compliment the shape of our well-being. So miraculous that the currency of mercy is still accepted at many banks of the heart.
All of us have felt love, or something like it, move through us. Maybe it’s been a feathery feeling like crows flying from one songed horizon to the next. Or maybe it’s a much bigger feeling, like a luscious and luminous 100 ft. WOW transforming our backbones into Broadway. Or maybe it’s more subtle, like how long, leggy shadows slowly cross golden patches of sunlight late in the day. Or maybe it’s like how soft rains slip through our fingers and off our tongues when we’re trying to count all the drops; knowing we’ll never get them all, but washed clean by what comes our way.
Mother Nature’s got a barcode tattooed on her inner thigh. Happened one night when she was sleeping off a drunk of lush waterfalls and greenery. Government meanies crept in, stoked up the money gun, got to work selling off pieces of the sweet lady. When she awoke, she flipped her wig with rising sea levels, tidal waves, declining sea ice. Some people claim climate change isn’t real, and all news is fake. Let ’em go face to face with Mother Nature, I say. Her heat-trappin’ CO2 brutes mean business. Not the business of selling off nature. More like the business of, Do you want your tombstone in marble or granite?
The monk telephone sits in silence. The rude neighbor telephone rings when you’re trying to sleep. With the tombstone telephone, you don’t hear it till you’re dead and gone. With the Trump telephone, you can’t trust anything it says at all. The Johnny Cash telephone has a ring of fire. The guillotine telephone rings your head off. The hangover telephone doesn’t ring, it moans. The coitus interruptus telephone doesn’t allow you to hang on, it just leaves you hanging. The Fourth of July telephone doesn’t seem to offer as much freedom as it used to.
My radio has a mind of its own. Instead of playing FM or AM, it plays I AM. My radio can fix broken faucets and broken hearts. It can tune a car engine with a catchy tune. Can survive hurricanes, tornadoes, any kind of blowin’ in the wind. It can walk the line or take a walk on the wild side. My radio can have sympathy for the devil, while climbing a stairway to heaven. It can be your now or never, or your strawberry fields forever. Can do the blitzkrieg bop or go dancing in the streets. It can spend days building a bridge over troubled waters and still smell like teen spirit. My radio wants to meet your radio. Wants to procreate with it to create a million and more great songs to heal the world.
Gather leaves and clouds to make a resting place for worries. Rub birdsong on scars. Mix absolute awe and hula hoop hip undulations to create full mind and body good vibrations. Offer compassion as food for the yowling mouths of the disenfranchised. Break bread with one another instead of one another’s bones. Build well-contained fires to keep heart-feasting wolves at bay. Within the center of that fire’s warmth and glow, count your blessings and truths. Tattoo the number on your wrist. Wear it proudly.
Side effects may include bone fractures, hair loss. Unmappable and unconquerable sadness. The once honeyed milk of hope may leave a gunmetal taste in your mouth. Pillow talk may turn toxic. Kisses, no matter how faithfully offered, may be slapped with guilty verdicts. Your self-esteem may experience a leaky discharge. Other side effects can include new holidays created in your name. Civil War re-enactors stripping off blues and grays, hosting naked swim parties in your honor. Atom bombs blowing off steam by singing you Bach lullabies. You may also experience an increased sexual appetite. Libido lickable as a lollipop. Alternative facts disentangling into vast populations of natural-hued truths. You may also experience seizures, strokes, problems with memory attention. Which may cause you to remember none of this come morning.
I am building something to share with you: time. Vast utopias of free moments constructed between the ticking of each minute. Spiraling dimensions of freedom whose hallways are decorated with glittering infinitude. No clock hands to hold us to our griefs and burdens. No special days stolen away to fulfill meaningless obligations. Here, we share in an endless supply of hours to build our worth and interests. Trade years of stress for quality breaths in the present moment. When I say I have something to share with you, do not consider our wishes too combustible for possibility, or assume our dreams have already burned to ash. Do not believe all to be lost with the continual tic-tic ticking of the clock.