we wear the big shoes;
daddies shoes. leather. well polished.

in them we tread over
broken vases and hot coals.

over crumbling bridges
and into dark places we’re told not to be.

over the freshly buried dead
and atop cranky ol’ mr. adams’ grass.

only those with the best shoes
can venture the farthest.

we stay away from the boys
with bare feet. they can’t keep up.

besides,
all they do is walk and work.

cutting lawns
and digging their graves.

we’d give them daddies shoes,
but we’re busy playing

under the 50 watt sun.

There is no health
If there is no sick
The clock can’t go ‘tock’
If it never went ‘tick’
The world can’t be happy
When nothing is sad
Peace is war
and
Good is bad.

But still…
I will not lose sight
or hope for that day
When things will not simply be
Black and white,
But gray.

so let the words bubble.
so let the words churn.
precipitants always settle,
unless they're stirred or burn.

eyeballs bigger all the time,
seeing veins of tulip leaf no more.
only balloons will satisfy.
apples have too much core.

swimming: is emersion, is not to float.
dive on in, dive on in, dive on in!
the world sees the world through a glass- bottom boat,
though we’re each and all born with a
fin.

standing quietly alone,
the warped carnival mirror
sagged as people giggled through it’s reflection.

however,
the illusion and allure were quickly lost when,
distracted by the humid scent of funnel cake,
desire switched to
the flashing lights
and the taste of love
and the Ferris wheel around the bend.

but the mirror stayed still like a train station.
it let the roller coaster roll.
it let the symphony play.

until
a crack grew and grew and

the beautiful curves of the mirror
shattered.

not from the strain or the weight,
but the absence,
the lack.

and the funnel cake lost it’s taste
and the Ferris wheel it’s allure
as the clown

swept away the
liberated shards of glass,
which sparkled like
new stars
as they fell into the
rust- rimmed
can.

Love is so overused
isn’t it?
the over expressive teens
eating each others faces
in dim high school hallways
(though they’ll have an appetite for someone else next week),
the velvet chocolate
which gives so much
temporary
enjoyment that the feeder  
professes her adoration
to it’s milky swirls,
the flimsy hallmark
cards which are bought to accompany
over- priced roses on
february 14th cause
the commercials are persuasive.

and yet,
that man over there,
on the park bench,
he sits empty and alone.
his finger tracing the spot beside him
that no one cares to fill.

and yet,
that girl,
so young,
she puts the gun in her mouth.
she thinks of the looks
and the words
and also the lack of words.

walls are built high,
plenty of artillery holes;
no door.

Love is so rare

isn’t it?