in new mexico, my home
a broken piece of ceramic
had one of two fates waiting

the trash pile was most common
as though once broken meant
forever useless

glue was the other choice
nothing exotic, ever
but the rescued vessel

became a thing to lament
the scars a constant reminder
of someone's careless hands

japan's ancient reverence
for even a common cup
demands restoration

silver or precious gold
mixed with tenacious lacquer
fills the gap, repairs the breach

that which was broken is whole
honor bestowed, history written
in glowing, visible seams

what joy the injured piece must feel
to know it was worth saving
i, broken man, can empathize

but in the kintsugi of life
i'd rather be the lacquer 
than the shattered bowl
                        

she said a spider bit her
and she found it alive
trapped it under a clear glass
and started asking everyone
what is it, what is it

of course there's the fear
that it's somehow venomous
and then the finger falls off
but really, how many of those
spiders are there in your house,
in mine. i mean the killer types

the problem of course with spiders
is that if you say 'color' and 'size'
you've just identified not one
but several thousand suspects
none of whom have a single drop
of harmful spit to work with

but we round them up anyway
those who match the description
segregate them behind walls, under glass
fear and despise them all the same
because any one of them might be guilty
because there's a one in a million 
chance of an accurate i.d.
                        

limitless capacity, random indexing
musical mind holds over sixty years of songs
ranging in completeness from snippets
of the title to maybe three words
of the chorus to the entire chords
and lyrics of an obscure track by
the loving spoonful or some such

drop in any sound, phrase, or short lick
and instantly a song plays
so long forgotten that it blinks 
in wild amazement at the sudden request
spins exuberently through two verses
then fizzles out, leaves me tapping
humming, blank on the final verse
the lyrics that would make it complete
the poignant lingering thought that
we shared through a slow dance
lost, just like our adolescent love

a new stimulus hits the select button
and in the middle of music induced memories
of a first awkward kiss
my thoughts shift to senior summer days
blasting down the highway
wind in my hair and nothing at all
on my mind but the rush of the notes
and the wind and the sweet euphoria
of g-l-o-r-i-a, gloooooria
and everything is all right
uptight and out of sight