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

It's not that words
have failed

it's just
there are none

all dreams

crushed
like aluminum cans

Just some red
slathered

and smeared
on canvas

and
nothing about this

is easy
but then again

life

should
always imitate

art

Sublime
white Orchid


like Ivory

then maybe
some purple splotches

shooting
from the *****

It's those long days
spent

with you
that play out

like a 24 hour
solo

on the saxophone
and summon all the cliches

"where have you been
all my life"

is the first one
coming to mind

uptown
downtown

double back
backtrack

then midtown

green light
yellow

red
followed by notes

flowing

from a clarinet
or a saxophone

with steam
coming from a sewer grate

winding

yes

but the pavement
is still satiny and smooth

It's a deep cough
a wet

or is it a dry
whooping cough

maybe
it's more of a hack

so much tissue
oh so little time

life is such
a struggle

but
would we have it

any
other way

Ice
on the trees

like ice crystals
on a bottle  

of vintage
soda

steam rises from a cup
of hot cocoa

and the home
is always warm

when the heat
radiates

from
the heart

A zip code
stamp

or maybe
metered mail

post office
or going postal

all night the rain
tapped the roof

are we in
distress

should I
or should I not

send
up a flare

or
launch the buoy

black
cast iron head

blonde
wooden handle

the magnet
you were

and I
was the steel

but too bad
it had to be the hammer

you thought to be
the only tool

you
ever needed

Long
shadows cast

and sunlight goes
pale

so little time
yet

so much left
to do

Constructon paper
and a wet felt tip

I said

was all we ever
needed

to make
a million dollars

you believed in me

my dreams
my promises

I'm sorry I shattered
and broke them all

one by one
vase by vase

All night the snowflakes
fell

and they were robust flakes
in the cold clear air

and all night
the earth slumbered

under
a soft white blanket

we are the metaphors we
choose

and last night we chose
the earth

Glasses clink
the piano dies

and the bartender
begins his sweeping

who am I
who are you

maybe
someone

who hates long goodbyes
and probably prefers

we just shake hands
and go?

Or one to pick
with myself

of how I wish
I'd done this

or that
and what I could've did

or what I should've did
but be grateful

for plain blessings

like how we don't get
the opportunities

in life
for those kinds of do-overs

because the biggest fear
is getting the smaller piece of bone

all over again

Head to toe
wall to wall

Jazz, blues
rock and roll

bouncing
up and down

on weak springs on
a saggy couch

15 minutes of fame
I'm lucky at ten or seven

and that's
with the squirting flower

Cue the ticking
and then the ringing

as the metal trinket
vibrates

on the table
the  counter

eggs are done

or must we
put down the pen

as that  puts an end
to the test

and it's the pressure
the stress

of a time crunch
or crisis

that never fails us
when we swing

for the fences
swoosh for the stars

mixing and tripping
over our metaphors

in our relentless
pursuit of success

Of high value
but yet the most flimsy
or breakable

and in some cases
shatters in pieces
and scatters across the floor

was this truly legit
or just an impulse buy
in the checkout line

at the front
counter
in the Hallmark store

something like love
so precious and we still
kick it to the curb

or manhandle
and shove it roughly
out the door

For once
pale light is warm

the whistling wind
gentle

and even though
the air is cold

and the snow swirls
piling high along the curb


strings of lights
on shuttered storefronts

twinkle

and for 48 hours
all was never lost

The moon is full
but your lips
were much fuller

as your reflection
rippled
in the amber

it's half past midnight
and all I can do
is stare at an empty glass

and ask
what the hell was  I
thinking

poem
lyrics
or just a screed

we rant
we rave
we rage against the machine

dandelions
daffodils
pear blossoms

and they say
to get gray
you must facilitate

the mostly holy
union
of bull and cow

Raindrops
some skinny
others

chubby

spiraling down the glass
in rivulets
with an occasional gust

of wind

that will
sometimes blow them
sideways

I would say lots of wind
but if I'm being honest
it's just

occasional

and you know
what they say
not about wind

but of country songs
about how every one of them
is about your life

at any given time

I didn't believe it then
but  now I can say this
with extreme clarity

Father
I know this
to be true

The air brakes
and rumble of a bus

pulling out
of town

and the buzzing
fly

of what would've been
if we had just stayed put

and is there progress
or  forward motion

when
there's lament

Yellow green and blue
made by metal shavings

flower and bloom
in the pyre

as sparks rise
dancing

and whirling
in the dark

and melted chocolate
marshmallows

sandwiched between
graham crackers

for smores
are something sweet

to go with the pieces
and shards

of memories
from oh so long ago