said Enrique, our nimble tour guide,

and who would argue with him, telling us

Spanish olive oil ranked Number One too,

much of it carted to Italy so Italianos

can slap their red-white-and-green label on it.

The Spanish speak four different languages,

each incomprehensible from the other,

making it burdensome for a tour leader

to move around easily and convey knowledge.

But it’s easy to see why the Spaniard lives

so long – he and she walk!  Walk briskly,

everywhere, striding like marathoners,

thinking while ambulatory, only good thoughts,

for frowns are rare, perhaps even forbidden.

The Catholic Church finally gave up

its Inquisitional ways long ago, and cathedrals

are everywhere, offering mass every hour

some days, the godly on strudy bent knees,

defying the church’s supplication to give it

more children, the godly more interested in

the fun part of sex rather than the reproductive.

We did see one rather young fellow in a

mechanized wheelchair, though he seemed

more interested in speed rather than recovery,

probably one of Spain’s many NASCAR nuts.

There is little fault about Spain and the Spanish -

the streets are pristine clean, the highways

uncrowded, maneuverable, the food in great

variety and tasty, the women slim and

fashionable, the men….who gives a shit?

But one fault:  few, very few, speak English.

Imagine that:  we go all the way over there,

toss our dollars at them, and they don’t speak

our language.  Makes you wonder, eh?

Note:  Irene and I are recently back from Spain – Madrid, Toledo, Avila, Salamanca, Zaragoza, Laguardia, Bilbao, and Barcelona – loving every minute of it.  Spain is clean, underpopulated, proud, polite, p0lished, and healthy, both in mind and body.  Immigrants are welcome, to do the unpleasant jobs the natives prefer to hire out.  Think about that a minute.  Their life expectancy is something like 88 years.  So, what’s wrong with us?  Nothing really, and it’s always good to return home, even after a two quick weeks.  We stayed abroad nearly ten weeks once, and I came home, kissed the ground at the airport, immediately went off for a juicy cheeseburger.  Did about the same this time, too.

with my beaver-skin cap,

I admire myself in the mirror,

resplendent in real-chamois shirt,

tanned leather pants, snakeskin belt,

and slick lizard boots.

Ah, of course, my necklace of

gleaming yellow bear teeth.

Yes, I’m ready to slip into my

precious coat of non-faux fox fur

and stride off proudly to meet

with friends of similar mind:

we’ve set ourselves a course,

perhaps impossible:  Save the Whales.

(Published in the Winter 2005 issue of P.D.Q., Poetry Depth Quarterly)

Note:  Written entirely with tongue in cheek.  However, how many times have I seen doers of good setting off to save the world or whatever, outfitted with all the tell-tale trophies of animals or whatever, similar to the objects they’re bent on saving.  ‘Tis a sobering sight to watch their plight.  Poetry Depth Quarterly, alas, has become extinct, so indeed….save the whales!  Save the magazines and newspapers!  Save the printed word!

to the damp darkened store,

adjust my eyesight and

notice headless dummies

attired in clothes I once wore,

gave up when I outgrew them

or found them too depressing,

often having been handed down

by older brothers, never

as neat as me, even putting

a neat crease in patched pants,

sewing an insignia over a stain,

mismatching checks and colors

to the point of absurdity,

making those who might

otherwise stare look away,

clean and neat though I was,

never a fashion plate,

not once cited as best-dressed,

always curious to examine

new fall fashions I couldn’t

afford on classmates I envied -

not for their brains or

athletic abilities – just their

clothes, new clothes, never

handed down, too fine for

this store that reminds me

who I was, didn’t want to be.

(Published online in issue No. 13 of Thick With Conviction, October 2008)

Note:  Another painful reminder of growing up poor (hey, no tears – almost all of us were poor back in the dismal Thirties and Forties).  I’ve written quite a few poems about thrift stores and antique emporiums, always get the willies when I walk in, develop that terrible feeling like I’ve been here before, can’t wait to escape, get fresh air.  And, sorry to report, I never, ever buy anything secondhand.  That’s a vow I made to myself.

neckties, those frivolous silky

adornments us men used to cinch

around our necks most mornings as if

practicing for a hanging party at work.

Then, quite slowly and mysteriously,

they began to disappear all over the country,

except of course in the big cities

where hangings are still the norm

in board rooms and social clubs.

Had I to wear one, to my funeral, for instance,

I wouldn’t even know how to tie one one -

a tie I mean, not a big drunk which someday

will probably be my means of escaping

this curious world of fashion abnormalities.

But I want the necktie to come back, I do indeed.

Not for the reason you may suspect.

Oh no, not to be worn around the neck.

Rather, to be used as a belt after raising boys’

pants about eight inches to cover up underwear.

(Published online in the February 2009 issue of Lunarosity Magazine)

Note:  Being retired and living so effortlessly in Colorado as I now do, my hundred or more neckties rest in a box, neatly folded, perhaps never again to be worn about the neck.  I am saving them for the first drive – Salvation Army, let me hear from you – that swears these instruments of torture will be put to use to raise the standards of pants on teenagers.  I have no interest in looking at underwear worn by teens, male or female.  Those thongs girls wear are equally unpleasant, and maybe my old-fashioned, wider, more flamboyant neckwear could be used somehow to supplement their skimpiness.  Damn, I must be getting old….