I used 2 think of heaven and hell as metaphors
Descriptors of states, experiences
As a hyperbole
 
But now, after the passing of my furry 4 legged best friend
I want 2 believe
There is an actual heaven
That keeps beautiful souls
Safe, loved, protected, free from sickness and pain
 
I want 2 believe that she is there
Free to roam, able 2 use her legs
Wagging her tail in delight
Just like her puppyhood days
Involved in mischief
Rolling on her back, in the glistening rays of the sun
 
I want 2 believe
She forgives me
For how she spent her last night, last hours
Deep regret cing her die so unpeaceful on the doctor’s table
Being mishandled by the xray tech
Then being forced oxygen all the way down her neck
What was I thinking?
 
Krusty plz forgive me
 
I watched u die there on the table
Witnessing ur last reflexes
Then being asked
Cremation or burial?
Temporary hold of body in the vets freezer
Whilst I decide
 
Yes, I hope
I want 2 believe ur in heaven
That ur not w ur body
But in a better, more beautiful place
Where u don’t have arthritis, pain..
Where u can move freely
And be free
And happy
Forgetting all the pain u had during your last years
Forgiving me

Motorcycle poet
ur presence seems ubiquitous
as I drive down these suburban streets
reminders of you come thru as I see random motor cyclists
come along my way.
Something of a rarity in my ordinary usual days
 
U inspire me yet create for me a sad longing
Past my prime, living as adventurously as u
an impossibility
 
Motorcycle poet
Solace eyes
Hesitant yet articulate
Sheds all on stage
Exposing vulnerabilities, inner conflicts
Diaries of ur soul
To an eager audience, to all interested
 
ur a mystery that keeps me wondering
that keeps me thinking of u
 
ur talent unintentionally, expose my insecurities

MY UNCLE 
 
U wouldn't know by looking at him...
 
Scruffy red blushed face
Flushed/covered with fine lined wrinkles
No end, no beginning
 
Dark freckled treads/mane
Bowl shaped front with a lil side mullet
 
 Permanent blood shot eyes
 
Shaky husky voice
 
Wanders solo on suburban streets
A streetwalker
In worn tired clothing
That holds a long history
Seen many things
Threads barely holding its own
Coming undone
While marching 2 his own beat
 
Going 2 work, an unfamiliar task
The bottle his friend and foe
 
He drives no more
But knows every street, every area of the silicon valley
Better than his own hand, bettr than a gps
 
God bequeathed him a love for learning
He used 2 b a professor
Once in korea and once in Taiwan
 
His children, MIT alums
 
But unless u took the time 2 ask
U wouldn't have even fathomed
There was more 2 this streetwalker character
 
A genius in disguise.
A genius interrupted and plagued by detrimental habits
 
But then again what is a genius supposed 2 look like?

B poem

How do bees make honey?
It’s a funny mystery 4  me.
I could look it up but what fun would that be?
Instead, I’ll make up in my head
How they make nature’s delic sweetness
 
Comes  from their b-hinds?
 
I asked my mom –
“hey mom, how do u say honey in Chinese? She said tian sheen. The othr kind of honey aka sweetheart”
hey, maybe honey is made from luv
the queen bee with all her lover boyz!