Spice

Spice

It degrades,
  Imparts the smallness
Of a world once so large,
  Grown close

Dream now you are a voyageur,
  On a stout wooden boat,
Pregnant at keel, laundry sheets
  Hung to dry for sails,
Rocking months to cross warm oceans
  Of blue spray and flying fish,
To secret ports and islands
  Where from we acquire -
  Spice!

Sacks of aromatic sacred saffron,
Barrels of nose burning eyes watering curry,
That vanilla you can taste on sight,
Until the hold is as full as living downwind
  On a street of Far East restaurants,
Where in each lobby is an altar to their God,
  Laughing Hotei, with his belly,
  Incarnate Tiki, made of glockenspiel wood,
Vishnu dancing with six arms,
  Each bearing his sword for slicing truth

Phone Rings, Again!

“Hello, my name is Siva,
  I am calling back on the Computer Service ticket you requested,”
“I never asked for a Computer Service ticket,”
“To access your computer, first please tell me your login ID and password,”
“Oh, Fuck off Siva”