Don't run away
run into the  lightning

the thunder
and the storm and

wash thoroughly
in the torrential drops

because as they say
a little sudden rain

never
hurt anyone

We all do
search that is

for the sand
that slipped

through
the hour glass

so I don't fault you
for walking the halls

room to room
don't worry

we'll see him again
and each other

With every turn
and twist

of the silver knobs
and tightening

of the nylon strings
the dream

becomes less milky
and gauzy

so the real picture
can begin to focus

slightly crooked
it hangs

but a painting
none the less

of a not-so-perfect
vessel

that carried us
down rivers

and out to sea
as we journeyed

far and wide

the street you describe
I've never been there

but I have kicked a bedsheet
a time or two

and maybe I've reached
for cigarettes

I've been hot and cold
more cold blooded

you might say
in the true snake sense

Peace

today
is what I've

made with age
and life

I love you

is what I wrote
this morning

on last night's
cocktail napkin

Thunderclaps
lightning flashes

and the rain
pit pats on the roof

my fingers
snap crackle pop

and I'm distracted now
but I'll get back on track

as soon as I see
a rainbow

a dead mouse floats
where water has puddled

in the driveway

and a  whiff of skunk
means

it must have taken port
from last night's storm

in the garage

a slow rusty drip
falls from the gutter

so many early morning
impressions

so many clues
and so many McGuffins

to distract

muscles twitch
moonlight radiates
though still soft

a voice

angelic
or otherwise

sings

a sharp blade
carving

shaving
after shaving

from a gnarled wooden
stick

or is it the sound
of your gravelly singing

and the many guitars
you've  owned and played

or the feel of stubble
or the smell of cologne

I don't know

but I'll can and will say
at the risk of selfishness

is your day is
mine too

and a day
will never be enough

Like
pond water

agitated
with a stick

that
became muddy

we were

but are much
clearer now

and no journey
was ever necessary

you and I made a home
right here

at the edge
among the reeds

The Moon glows
as the night ages

and I grow old
with it

After the swirls
a glimpse into a crystal ball

your life
and what it could be

or should be
then

BAMMO

it's gone

back to the world
dyed melancholy

and blue

Distant bells
jingle

getting louder
as he comes

down the street
a bright white truck

rolling toward us
and if we hurry

we can scavenge through
kitchen drawers

and scrounge up
just enough change

for an ice cream
treat

we can make it work

we always do

When every day's
a struggle

to keep your head
above water

may solace be found
in words so preciously

penned
by a printing press

with sprinkles
and milky images

Silhouetted trees
against a dusky sky

and it's only been a week
but already

too long

but hey
what can I say

we got a little hot
and things got a little weird

but no it's not
at least

I don't think
it's too late

that is

The Red White
and Blue

gloppy
painting

of the flag
hangs on the wall

in my den
and I have a whale of a time

keeping it straight
freedom

is messy
and not everyone enjoys it
always

but I won't give up
on that painting

nor you
and I hope you

won't give up
on me

like wind
through
a creaking door

three messages
in three hours
and nothing

but cicadas
which are even worse
then crickets

Not a pigeon
mind you

just a middle-aged man
whose shoulders burn

while trying

to ***** back in the cover
on the ceiling light

Blows notes
and simple chords

little gold
plastic

to be exact

jump in


the water's nice
no

the water's cold


Cold or nice
you take your pick

Gas powered
music

to my ears

row after row
of tangled grass

cut

and gray branches
collected

and hauled away
one dump truck

at a time

I'll attach it to your coat
with a metal clip

this note

you keep saying
I should open up to you

and this brevity
on yellow scratch paper


should tell you
everything

you need to know

Like good help
a smooth glide  is hard to find

that perfect pen that rolls
with  the flow

of your words and music
across the paper

Give me some
if this is Heaven

red gold
petals

pressed against
solid blue sky

without a cloud
in sight

if this is Heaven
give me some

Murky

like someone
poked a stick

in some pond water
and stirred up mud

the past is swirling
and

murky

but there was a time
when we loved it

so much
we named a magazine

Life

with the title in white block letters
against a small red square

and glossy pages
in between

It was the gray
and blue wrapper
so ugly

that made it
the Zero

the candy bar

nobody ever wanted
and because of that
nobody ever knew

how it tasted

but yet I miss it
just like the ability
to pull a lever

and hear
the crinkling sound
of candy coming down

the shoot

colors
a spectrum of colors

reds
yellows

violets
and greens

succeeding
lightning rain

and gray clouds
beauty

along with the calm
after the storm

Blue sky
crisscrossed

with
chemtrails

the first butterfly
of the season

and a lawnmower
gasping

for that last
bit of gas

point

you ask

point is something
usually lead

and almost always
on the end of a pencil

Yes

I found your journal
deep

in the attic
the black one

with a gold lock
I pried open

but
what I wonder

is

do I dare
try and decipher

your hen scratches

I guess the bigger question
do I dare

disturb the universe

Gleaming
white it shines in the cold sun

of this early Spring day
with the corrugated door

rolled up
the uniformed driver

dollying packages
down the silver ramp

a Fed Ex truck
parked outside my window

I'm staring

at a blue bottle
with bubbles

in the wavy glass
that is as thick as

thick

the world ends
when we have no more

metaphors
and similes

to describe it

Some say the TeCh#
is not what it should be -

and they might be right

                                    but w/o

hELL0      pOEtry

weLL (I don't want to speculate)

All I want T@ saY is that
this sight and all my friendS on iT!

MEAN more
                                     to ME

Than you WIll EvER

Know!!!!!!

In his              
plaid sport coat

pulling tissues
from his paper sack head

flinging them

slinging
bathroom jokes

cackling
jigging

a comedic
unknown soldier

known only
to God

Mood swings
no

see saws
maybe

but definitely
not monkey bars

and what does it matter
anyway

you don't write
or call

I get it though

you're too busy
but aren't we all

Or trap
for tourists

but not travelers
and searchers

who'd find gold
and platinum

in the two headed
yak

or snake
with a spooned tongue

and they would
bank on it

you say you
love me

and immediately
I look for strings

and a hand
up your back

wool
we sit in a park

on the grass
as the day turns

dark

we fail to see
but most of all

we  struggle

A hardboiled egg
on the counter

dyed blue

staring at me
at six am

he is risen
and unfortunately

so did I

Slats
planted in the sand

lashed together
with rusty wire

while scraggly reeds peak in out
And up around them

I am there and yet

I never was

Cotton whites

sock shirts
and drawers

still fresh with the scent
of laundry soap

flapping

in a crisp March wind
on a gray weathered rope

they say pictures
last forever

but not this one

fading fast between
the plastic and acidic pages

A silver nicrophone
blares

rapid fire punchlines
in one long sentence

that snakes its way
to your funny bone

Warbling pigeons
in the park crazy

from the heat

a dizzying spin
on a paint-chipped

merry-go round

a greased slide down
hot metal

into a gravel pit

a burning sunset
but don't rub your eyes

Arm
moves broom

in a sweeping
motion

causing dirt
and dustball

to scurry
across the floor

creating

piles upon piles
of detritus

we become
the things we hover

and focus on
for far too long

Shadows
were not seen

therefor
the grass is soon

to be green
and you and I

have toiled scraped
searched

and finally

now

a much needed
break

A blast of the whistle
and a slide down the dinosaur

it's quitting time

for life to  begin
again

Tweezers
buzz
"butterfingers"

and bulbous sneezer
that is touched
by a feather

to make it
sneeze
and tickle

the funnybone

A silver shiny
replica

of a handsome
hat

fashioned
for a little tuxedoed man

with a walrus
mustache

who's bald
stern

and wears pockets
that are fat

mishap
maybe
but definately

not and act of God

no warning given
and no discernable
clues

just a hurling big canvas
painted with pastels
nonsensical

at best

Leather oil
and smell

figures into it


and crack  of the bat
sound

as well as
the other senses

and food
food is for action

not for thought
as we grasp at straws

and other metaphors
we appropriate mix

and call
American