Rain and all its forms
Blurred Mountains seeping into the borders
surrounding
A little village
Grey on the horizen
Ocean way way below the village
Down the mule trails
Scraping in coils
Pebble linings
Down to the mediteranean sea
In this village
Cobble streets
Coloured roof tops
Crumbling houses
Empty clotheslines
Except a few wet clothes hanging
Forgotten faded red shirt
Hanging from one season
To the next
Water drips and dances bouncing from stone to stone
Wooden shoes clack quickly
As they rush over the street
A lady
Wearing hand woven clothes
warm fresh flat bread
Wrapped in cloth
And in a basket.
A young boy follows her
His sweater held over his head
Eyes obscurred
He walks as though in a maze
Then they are gone
Empty streets
A round woman, hair ******* with a faded white rag cloth
Empties out steaming hot water
From a copper ***
Soapy steam
In the rain
Alley way
Side door
Not much activity
A girl sits looking out observing
Watching the rain
Smelling the warmth
Rising from the bakery down below
She remebers the hustling market, the colors when in the sun
The shuffling people
In sunglasses
New people
Sun season
Different apearences than the ones she knows
The ones shes used to
The skin foreign to her.

She likes her room
With the elephants in the rug
Little marchers
Within the mandela sequince
She likes the bakers down below
Aunts and uncles
Unsure of who's family
By blood
And who's family
In spirit.
She likes the old man
Who sits with his cane
In the little sitting chair
In front of the bakery
He who treats her to a cookie every now and then
Or slips her a piece of sweet bread
He, who wears an old black cap
And puts on his coat
And hobbles down the little street
She waits for him sometimes
She sits perched outside and looks down the street
From right to left
Until she hears the familiar clatter
The sound of his wooden cane on cobblestones
Each who carry their own divine essence
Or sound to which they bring
A memory of her father comes to mind
How differently he sounds when he walks
Gentle and slow
Heavy and kind
Compared to her mother
soft and light
Swift like a feather
in the wind
Sweet like a berry.
The girl sometimes likes rainy season more
Although she misses the hustle and bustle of market day
In the sun
When the lively noises fill her ears
The wild smells
When the bakery arises before the crack of dawn
And the smell of fresh bread awakes her
Smells of new special treats
Made larger and larger
Just to apeal and to please
The large crowds.
The sounds of bakers
Yelling orders back and forth
Clanging pots
A madness of creation.
Grand cakes
Thousands of tarts
Each one delicatly made with care.

When the people make extravagant delicacies
When goats are roasted
And fresh tomatoes
Made into scrumptious sauces
With fresh basil.
Olives pickled and handed out on toothpicks
By yelling merchants
The best olives in the region shouts one
Across the street, the bestsest shouts another.
Most
spectacular
Imaginative
Freshest
Most this
Or that
Yummiest
Tastiest
Wildest
Amzingest
Greatest.
In her mind the images play
Like moving dolls

In full vibrancy.

For a second she forgets
Her placement
She has returnes back to the heat
And the memories
Of men in white undershirts
Smoking outside
Playing cards and waiting for the sun to dry
the rest of their clothes
The bantering ladies
From window to window.
She gets lost,
until the sound of a door loudly shutting in the streets awakes her
Jumping up
Looking out the window
Still silence
Nothing in sight.

Drizzles of rain
The sound it makes
When it slides down the roofs
She misses the heat
Of the bustling summer day
But in secret
she likes the rain
The silence and comfort it brings.
She likes the rain and the lonliness.
The solitude.
the sounds of her parents sleeping
Yawning.
a distant kettle whistling,
A neighbors.
The desolatation.
Patters of rain.
She likes to have both seasons
One season to live
And the
other to dream.

It could have been in any cove
In any sleepy desert oasis
Mine was down from the left
of the Put-put course
the one with
the prettiest girl in spain

For three days after the first burn
I stayed inside the villa
Then dared the solar power
to further fry my body

I lay in the mediteranean
with so heavy a salt content
floating about aimlessly
until it bumped me

As I awaken from my sun slumber
The smile and the blood thirsty look take me in its eye
and I freeze cold for three
quarters of a second.  Before punching
it's nose
and then in its eye
and again in its brain
Giving the blood thirsty beast the education he requires
to satisfy my hunger
I drag him to the pebble beach
and beat his brain repeatedly
with a succession of right crosses
then plead

Charlie Kitchell take my picture
Kathy Kitchell take my picture
Michael Meadows take my picture

Five Foot TEN INCH SHARK
Caught by six foot twenty-three
year old G.I.

This calls for a celebration
First with laughter
Then with liquor
Then with feast of prey
and more liquor

We ate for a week
and with barcardi at a dollar a gallon
puked to our hearts content

Not in Alliconte
with its industry
Not in Benidorm
with its way too many brits

Altea
the so quiet
its mob eerie quiet
the most relaxing place I've ever been

Where my high powered zoom lens
took many **** photos of
Beautiful women

Where we de-wasped the bushes
by the pool at the rented villa

and I performed the most daring
feat of my life
ending a shark's
with my bare hands

With loads of time to fantasize
About living the Bermuda paradise
San Tropez, Marbella and Capri
The French Riviera and the Mediteranean sea

Dyed blonde hair and teeth like pearls
Night club champagne 'In Crowd' girls
Dance in Rome and kiss in Paris
Luxurious lifestyle you learnt to cherish

Paparazzi socialite idle rich
Expensive sports car posing *****
Boeing, Concorde club class flying
Jet stream travel is electrifying