I hear:
Music from Russian compusers and performers:
Glinka, Heifitz, Tschaikovsky.

I taste:
Cashews
Almonds
Vodka
Pistachios.

I do:
A crossword from a kindred soul and
One entry in particular interests me:
--- Friendly.
My God.
Much of my adult life, I’ve worked to
Get people to get it.
And “user-friendly” finally is enough of
Our culture that it becomes a cross word entry.

I admire:
American Airlines staff who:
Every day must:
In the hidden recess of the mind must wonder:
“Will this be the one?”

I write:
With pen designed by some student,
No doubt from Ivria, Milan, London or LA.
A thousand thousand years of:
We benefit.
Do we give back, enough?

I fly now,
Every chance I get
I make.

Hey. You know what?
I’m going to die anyway.
And:
My flying more, not less, is a message:
You missed the boat.
By a long amount.
You are not in the fairway;
You are not in the rough;
You are not on the course.
You mistook the ball for a pumpkin;

Tried to carve a halloween mask and ended up with a Few shreds of plastic and rubber bands,
While the rest of us
Work, play, worship, love:
Together.
Fly:
Together.

Memory Trace

It’s that Ricky Lee Jones album that returns me.

Oh, God.
The truth is:
I don’t recall her name
Though I loved her,
Truly loved her, for a time.
A time.
A time, short by some measures;
Immortal, by others.
And after ---
After, she sent me
(Such a sweet gesture)
A Ricky Lee Jones album and a note.
And sure, I loved her,
Though I can’t recall her name.
We seduced each other on the balcony of a tram
Headed for Baltimore’s train museum
At a Human Factor’s meeting.
And, I would have done anything, anything.

When we arrived at the famous seafood restaurant that next night,
(Famous, though I’ve forgotten the name)
We stood in line together several hours for Maryland crabcakes.
Starved, we were finally seated.
There were no crabcakes left; indeed, no seafood left;
Nothing of what we came for remained.
Only burgers and fries, better done
No doubt, at Burger King or McDonald’s.
Of course, no-one forgets those names.
Billion dollar advertising budgets insure that.
I seem to recall that we played darts a bit,
Waiting in line.
You aim; you throw.
Sometimes, you hit the bull’s eye.
Sometimes, at the last second, the dart dives
Just below the bull’s eye into the 3.
Sometimes, you even hit the little metal divider between sections.
Even a good throw…
Can sometimes go astray.
But that’s no reason,
Not to play.

The Kiss

Lids glide closed:
Like leaves of autumn fall.
Lips so shyly part --
Proprietry deposed.
Cracked, then crumbled wall.
Never ending, without a start.

So slowly touch --
It seems they must.
Each of knew we knew
Saw it secret of a such
Daring little but to trust
Invisibly, our fingers drew

The outline of the other's trace
Breathed the breath of love at last
Tumbled to the ground -- but when
Had I ever fallen with such grace?
When had slow become so fast?
When had not become so then?

And after on the forest floor,
With shreds of leaves in golden hair,
And thrashers sang our songs of glee,
How I reached and drank your core,
Ran falling up your spiral stair,
Closed my eyes to truly see:

The we of us in you and me
The game I lost and truly won
And round and round
The singing sound
As two became so one
And one became so three.

Race, Place, Space, Face...Etc.

Space

Allowed the growth of Race.

Race is all about crossing Space
In the shortest Time.

To save Face,
Many of one Race
Insist they own Space
Want their own Place.

To win Face,
Someone might fake the Time
It took to cross a Space
And claim a Place
On the winner's stand and Time,
Their grand Smile
For awhile, so in Style.

Style is a sign of Race,
Of Place,
What kind of Face
Do you want to Grace
What comes into and on your Place
Your Face?
Your Grace?

Is there any kind of reason or Rhyme
To the Time
That we spend trying to Smile
Trying to use Style
To win Face over Face,
If it means that Life
Is Rife with Strife?

If there were more Time
And we listened for the Rhyme
Would we finally See
Eternity?
Infinity?
The ultimate futility
Of Racing Race over Race,
Face over Face?

How Odd of God
To give us Life
And then program us to a Life of Strife.
Perhaps the Wife
Was right all Along --
The Strong
And stupid "Might Makes Right"
Is just another way of saying: "Fight Fakes Sight"
For if we could truly See
The Space
The Time
That separates you and Me

Is nothing but illusion and a sick Joke
Not worth the Choke
Of atomic Fire
Ruining Desire
Forever and forevermore
(It isn't worth the bleeding sore)...

We could reach our hands Out
Across the Space
And Shout
"Race
Has gone, we've won, we all shall Live!
Place --
We do not care, we all shall Give
Love to our common planet, our Space
Love to our common people, our Race.
Love each moment of our common Time,
Echo echo each to each our common rhyme.
Our common rhyme."

I think, it's about Time.
Let's save this Place.
Let's forget Race,
Face it, Face
Is a Race that can't be won
We're already one.
We are already One.

We can pull and we can Push
We can blow ourselves to Mush
But the fact remains that we are One
So whoever wins hasn't Won.
They are only has-been nth Place
We are all the Human Race
And we all share this little Space.

Listen to the echo of our common Rhyme
Let's use Love Love to fill our common Time.

Rain Play

Drip.

Drop.

Dripple, dripple, drop, drop.

Plop.

Sputter, drip,
Splish, splash
On the lash.
Pitter, pat, pat, pat.
This and that,
Roar, whoosh
Roar, whoosh
Crackle stack
Fire Crack,
Bobby boom!
Dripple whoosh,
Gurgle gush
Gutter rush.
Thunder struck
Blasted luck
Cancelled game
Chanceless fame.

Soaked shirt
Splattered dirt
Roiling muddy
Fuddy duddy.
We don't care;
We'll just dare.
Lying field
Laying field
Playing field
Loving wet,
Better yet.
In all the roar whoosh
Mud our cushy cush
Fire crack
Splicky splack
Wicker whack
We don't care
Kissing there
In all the rushing
Pelt of gushing
In all the crackling
Crackle stack,
Where it's at.
That's that.