Passing by those
owners of sad lost eyes
like Rubin's faceless
slumping on kerb ridges 
body bridges
between pavements and
shuttered shop cages
where the cast of a streetlamp gets swallowed up
by dime bag shadows,
30 to 1 outsiders
and washed up wannabe beatniks
too wild for Kerouac pages.
I'm sure there's a beauty somewhere there
below the crust of the surface
late in the a.m. between
stiletto heels clip and echo
and the strike and flare
of cigaretted fingers
if I only dared
to thread and seek out
where a different twist of choice nearly led.

No one, no one here, no one there, ever.
Uncared for, it felt dark and misty.
All alone, aside seven billion souls.
Needed only when needed, a solitude.
Ring-fenced in an imaginary world of love.
No escape for me to my reality, it hurts.
Kept knocking on the walls, for affection.
Wisely I tethered on, purposely off,  living in a solstice of dream.

Sitting on his windowsill
looking at the moon,
Left with a melody from Rosie,
Wanting to know, for why did she evade
the advances of love, he had lovingly made?
Looking at the big apricot tipped moon
in his indigo sky,
What a romantic scene to you and I?
He's been loving Rosie since he was born
and will love her until his dying day!
His undying love for Rosie, is what I would say!

The piano should curb his drinking,
his necktie needs to wake,
Combo come back you're making a really big mistake,
The juke box, well just keep your fluids away
or the juke box won't live to see another day.
The carpet needs a cleaner,
And the spotlight needs a dusting,
The telephone should stop smokin'
Unless he needs a bustin'
And give the balcony a break !

Falling in love
Can make me blue
Especially falling in love with you
Its the music and the gin
tends to make me want to sin
but not usual in an ordinary day

It's when my heart calls out for you
I just don't know
why I do
Cos falling in love with you
Would be wrong
Like in Tom Waits song

You belong to someone else
but that's not why I want you
You stood out there
and caught my eye
I saw you look at me I'd die
To have you close to me.

Years have passed, been high, been low
been drifting though the memories past.
I find my thoughts stuck on you.
Why, cause you were pure, apart from
the kind of life I was living and beyond
what I deserved.
I’d like to explain, but how do you
explain stupid, foolish and irresponsible
to a perfect soul who never experienced
those aberrations. How could you ever
understand and forgive me? I was so
intimidated by your sweetness and beauty
I had to run Martha. After all these years
and, for me, boatloads of tears,
I had to reach out. Words fail me like they
did so many years ago. I’m glad you are
happy and life is good for you. If you
remember, one fond memory is
all I could ask for...  Tom.

The Provocation on Highway 401/ By Maria Mitea

There will always be a provocation, temptation, elation
Someone inviting you for a fresh breath to take in, and out
when you, the day-to-day maker are driving, loving, or maybe make money
with a hammer in your hand hitting on a red iron.

Hey, you two, and three, five four, or maybe ten, and even thirteen
on a pin-up, or pin down you choose to live in Bohemia, or maybe,
not, or again maybe free love, wanderer, adventurer, or vagabond
with a hoarse voice, will invite you "Going Out West", and change your name.

I am in, even though I don't know what I mean, Please, before I start to write let me park at WalsMart, and my apology if you feel ignored or bored.
I have an important encounter on Wikihead with Tom Waist, intrigued if he meant anatomy or a cut of meat from the leg of a lamb, or maybe he liked to be, or feel in between for the rest that moved in thin blood and sotto voices.

I pulled in, and find out that Tom Waist was born after the ussr famine,
agogy to see what lives in his guts, what a bad habit, "girl! go back and read what's the challenge about." I hold in from searching his words and thoughts that he played on a yellow paper, and think " Hm, he was born after the famine, his music and poetry must've been concocted from hunger starving for life itself."

I click one more time wikihead, and I see that indeed he did all he could do on earth and not only, but he also dug underbelly, living in between starving his audience to tears with his hoarse voice and appetite for art. Then I need him more. I can feel how he invites us all for artistic addiction, and I need him more, on a smartphone, I am digging his music and stumble into the "House where nobody lives", bursting into tears.

There will always be a provocation, temptation, elation
Someone inviting you for a fresh breath to take in, and out
when you day-to-day maker drive, love, or maybe make money
with a hammer hitting on a red iron,

Hey, you two, and three, five four, or maybe ten, and even thirteen
on a pin-up, or pin down you choose to live in Bohemia, or maybe,
not, or again maybe free love, wanderer, adventurer, or vagabond
with hoarseness in his voice, will invite you "Going Out West",
and change your name.

I read again and again, and one more time I listen to a spot fyi " Going Out West", and ask if this was the "voodoo ... , I am gonna make myself available to you" without losing your composure you have your "voodoo" means that brought me back in tears in the "House where nobody lives",

Ones, hey, you two, and three, five four, or maybe ten, and even thirteen on a pin-up, or pin down you choose to live in Bohemia, or maybe, not, or again maybe free love, wanderers, adventurers, or vagabonds with hoarse voices will invite you "Going Out West", and change your name.

When I think of you,
I hear a marimba in my head.
I'm lost like a stray cat.
Baby, I swear I'll hop a train
and head west, to roll away
from the memory of you.
This mad hatter moon lights
my way, and I'm done
holding on.  I'm getting a
bottle of whiskey, and drinking
it until you become a
blurry memory.
Then I'm jumping that train.