What comes first?

In bycicle?
The ‘i’ or the ‘y’?
It must be the ‘i’.
Bicycle.
That looks better. I just need to remember.
It’s the same ‘b-i’ as bi-annual, or bi-sexual, or bi-headed. Because there are two wheels.
Why do I mess it up so consistently?
I blame my great-grandfather. My mom’s, dad’s, dad.
He changed Bykowski to Byke. My mother’s maiden name.
A family name. Damn it!
I know how to spell the family name.
But every time I try to spell ‘bicycle’, my brain inserts the ‘y’ before the ‘i’.
Will I ever get it right without thinking about it?

Thoughts of Carrots Bubbling

Can’t take my mind off my crockpot creation.

Gastronomic patience.  Expecting to cook and cool.

And eat.  Glued to the scent of a recipe.

Sensation.  Enjoyment in a word.

Yesterday.  Thanksgiving’s trip.

Concluded family matters.

 

Babcia treading kitchen linoleum.

In darkness.  Her skidding slippers sounded.

Lonely.  And her cookbook collection.  Rearranged.

My thoughts.  A new library of culinary habits.

Never tried once until soup.

Think.  Thank.  Thunk.

 

On the long flight home.

A lentil.  Craving purposed my mind.

Why not?  Stew it over while writing.

Half past morning.  My favorite shop of coffee.

Googled ingredients.  For a better batch than one.

Found leaving home.

 

In a crumbling copy.  Laurel’s Kitchen.

Sadly for something.  Thinner than thick.

Supposing.

Dinner was a bowl of this.

Would I return?

Again.  Until.  Full.

Scientific Rumor

A rumor crawled along the grapevine, into my ear.

It was presented as scientific fact.

The human faculty, for music, predates language.

 

Early cavemen played music before they could speak in sentences.

I don’t know if it is true.  But, suppose it is.

Plausible.

 

Hands clapping and slapping.

Beating out complex rhythms.

Could poetry exist, otherwise?

What is life?

I want to share something.  But, I’m going through one of these myotonic-dystrophy episodes, where exertion brings on pain and.

Moving is exertion.  The days go by, and everything I write seems to suck.

My difficulty writing is part of my MD experience.  The highs, and lows, roughly follow my symptoms through the months.

So, this evening, I vaporized Sour Diesel.

Cannabis overcomes the inertia built into my symptom-cycle.

And Sour Diesel begs for music.

I fell asleep to Kaya.   Bob Marley’s ode to marijuana and rain.

 

My windows and doors are open.  A storm approaches from California.  Sometime tomorrow, we should have our first rain since November.

We are overcast with winter warmth.  My two cats, and the neighbor’s, are playing tag in the wind.

Throughout the yard and house.

 

I woke to the question.

What Is Life?

Black Uhuru asks.

 

 

Something about this song speaks to me.

The experience of life is framed by contrasting interpretations.

The positive and the negative are both constants.

The choice is where to focus.