First Class

I drank a lot.
Not the expressed purpose
Of flying on the company's
First class policy.

Get there well rested,
Ready to rip up the joint.
I know Mom,
It's really just bullshit.

At seven I must have received
Some permanent psychic reward
For rejecting the 6 cent ice cream cone
In favor of the 4 cent one, sold across the street.

For those who claim
A high level of objectivity,
And crave "world class"
My mother, as my dibbuk, offers her disapproval.

If I’d had a choice I might be indifferent.
Overcoming gravity is difficult,
But has nothing on mother's "practical".
I will, perforce, find "world class" seriously flawed.

When next you stand on principle,
Choose the "good" over the "other",
Know that your decision was made by a group,
Who might find your haircut a sad affair.

The Rich

“They will probably cut the plants back next week,
I don’t think they will be coming this week.”
So spoke the lady who lives in the very large corner house,
Where her plants now cover a public sidewalk.

“I think my gardeners are very nice and do a good job”,
She continues, assuring herself
That she is defending her gardeners,
Who are, in truth, not the issue.

My guess is she knows those gardeners work for her.
She might have to pay them an additional 25 bucks
To stay longer and cut her plantings back.
She’d rather carry the white man’s burden.

She tells me of other homes that are worse,
Notes how lovely her plants look,
And concludes with the observation:
“Isn’t it all about having lovely greenery”?

How great is the leap,
Having denied you have a choice,
To concluding that if your rights
Burden your neighbor, God has chosen you.

What’s To Be Done?

We’ve found the source of the Nile.
Now it’s time to locate God’s present position.
After searching the heavens with no success,
Efforts are turning toward a “time” exploration.

One scientist, disdaining conservative religious leaders
And evolutionists,
Believes he can track the Big Kahuna
By going back more than 14 million years.

Eminent space/time hunter, Professor Whatsamatter,
Heads a pack that includes several bail bondsmen,
Stars from 12 TV CSI programs,
And assorted dog tracking teams.

Whatsamatter has noted strange sounds,
Coming through his laboratory antennae.
These could emanate only from something
Earlier then the Big Bang.

Assuming that God was present
Before the creation of space
Whatsamatter expects to locate a sound trail
Left by the Almighty.

After noting the proximity of the
Sound studio for “Stupendous Noise”
A reporter suggested the sound might be coming from next door.
To which Whatsamatter replied “What you say”?

Candy

I don't think she paid
For the baby’s treat.
It isn't my store
But it's my system....

And yours.  
Who would point her out,
Drop the dime?
Let the clerk demand the candy be returned.

I have no say
If the hedge fund manager
Gets preferential tax treatment,
But here I can matter.

Besides, the billionaire
Did not break the law.
(He might have written it.)
Nice.

Surely the Mom could afford the candy?
$2.25. Everyone can afford 2.25, right??

Zionist

That a country for Jews
Should seem desirable
Testifies to both reason
And insanity.

Reason; recognizes
A history of persecution
And thought to mitigate.
Insanity; because anti-Semitism is irrational.

Sixty years later it looks like a set-up.
Only America offered assistance
And that covertly.
Some enemies wanted redemption, others a final solution.

“Here is a place you can be safe”, thought some.
More thought 100 to 1 against.
“Got to like those odds,
Let the Arabs finish them”.

Jews have long since redeemed
Their guilt over victimization.
They now walk straighter
And Israel stands, to the world’s embarrassment.

Rage

She moved her chair into my space.
He turned without signaling,
Costing me a chance to beat the traffic.
This really angers me.

It's been a long time with no philosophical repose
To suggest I'm making any progress.
What drives the need to find fault?
Surely, the blame lies with mother.

By bedtime I don’t recall
All the outrages that marred my day.
But I feel secure in the knowledge
That I haven’t passed into enlightenment yet.

Tomorrow, yes, tomorrow might be the day
When the slow moving, lane blocking, asshole
Does not reach into my third eye
And blacken it with his blatant disregard of my nerves.

Perhaps tomorrow I will overlook
Those fools who insist that life is glorious
And offer spiritual realignment
When the situation calls for disengagement.

Because I carry the Earth on my back,
I can sympathize with Atlas.
It’s a job that doesn’t pay well
But you can’t beat the view.

Mom

Her last good friend was not Jewish.
I’ve a picture of them playing Rummy,
Or at least attempting to play Rummy.
Mom is focused on winning.

Her last best friend is not white.
But the lady understood
That Mom had carried
A relatively benign racism into their friendship.

Mom moved beyond
Those acculturated fears
Long before she died
Veronica was her friend.

If most are victims of their time and place
Mom rose above her comfort level
Choosing “practical”.
Translation: this works for me.

In the minutes before she died,
When asked to wait for her children to come
Ruth gave a small head shake.
But for Veronica she nodded.

Then, settled in Veronica’s arms,
And as a child comforted
By her mother’s embrace,
Left us.