My tired eyes and red
glow on the tip of my last
cigarette tells me it’s way
past midnight again as I
try roping a star smoking
on my porch by the light
of a big old yellow moon
and I could have sworn I
saw her riding by wearing
black boots, her tight-assed
jeans and a blue bandanna
heading  west to Montana.

stirred deeply with joy
enthralled with the spirit
we return to Elysian fields
to live autumnal reveries

we prance once more
onto blue sky diamonds
with hometown heroes
to pitch perfect games
knock long grand slams
to honor and embrace
the semblance of siblings,
parents, lovers and friends

life's teammates
our dearest playmates
passed and still here
sustaining our spirit
filling the void of
riven hearts
with nothing more than
a smiling presence,
compliant ear
a warm embrace

keeping a
season of sunshine
alive for one more
golden day

in a resplendent moment
Measy’s youngest son
stood before me
as if it were him
five decades ago

his impish smile,
mischievous eye
and olive skin
wrinkled when
he grinned

your Old Man
was a hell
of a ball player
a great hitter
he always swung down
at the pitch, hitting
nasty line drives

I remember that
summer afternoon
when we first met on
the Washington School
Merry-Go-Round...
Measy just up
from Carolina
he spoke with
a slow Tar Heel drawl
we didn't know what
to make of him
so we made him
our friend

Sifford's Esso, B&D;
and Bulldog teammates
I marveled at his athleticism
but the thing I remember
most was the soft joviality of...

“ ah hoot,
ah hoot.
ah hoot”

his laugh would send
a soft almost *******
shudder through his body

Measy lives in me,
forever in my heart
I embraced young Roy
touched his cheek
a transcendent moment
that spans a half century

At first base
Gail “Peppermint Patty” Q
was scooping up grounders
and not letting anyone past her
without giving them a smile or a hug….
asking each player if their shirt fit right…

the way Gail played
she could start for
the Lady Gaels today...

on the mound
Moons was wearing
a Schmeds shirt
lobbing lollipops to the hitters…..
making sure everyone got on base…

at short Screwball
covering half the ground
he once did..
(never a ss but a classic junk baller,
never threw a pitch that you could hit)
but on this day his heart was filled
overflowing with the karma
of good works and his love for
Rutherford and its favorite
sons and daughters
who have gone on before….

other stars abounded on the field and off…
Noons cracked everyone up
with an endless stand-up routine
Skip walloped a few dingers
BL looked sharp in his Foster Grants
and Andy was looking good
destined for the next cover of GQ….

Coach Way gave a resounding pep talk…
the need to grow up and show up
with an attitude of gratitude will
always make one a winner
regardless of the score

in the stands I heard a hundred stories
about the prowess and foibles of departed friends…

Bay Bay’s HR smash that put Flash Cleaners
into the World Series

A cool Moose bringing the ball across
half court, driving and dumping one off to Head
for the go ahead points against Queen of Peace

Minnow ruling a territory that included Morse Ave,
Wood Street up to Chopper’s House and
half of the Washington School playground

Fic being the smallest Bulldog with the largest heart
ran over linebackers and tackled fullbacks twice his size

Weehawken Joe draining a jumper
from the top of the key to keep it close
at the Union Hill pit…

as the list of the departed was read by Gail, Pat, John and Jimmy
the depth of our loss was only exceeded by the magnitude of love
a caring community extends to one another….
Rutherford is indeed a very special place….

so many caring friends
so many good thoughts
the blessing of friendship
the grace of presence

as I turned to leave
I thought I saw
Nick and Joe
hanging with
Sweet Lou
the hog was
humming
his red bandanna
was flapping
in a rising breeze

Aaron Copland:
Our Town

Righteous Brothers
Unchained Melody

Whitney Houston:
I Will Always Love You

Oakland
Dia De Muertos
2015


Thank you Pat Francke, Jimmy Noonan, Gail Wilhelm Quinn and John Mooney for putting this beautiful event together….

My apologies for not mentioning all the beloved souls so honored at this game…..Know that all are deeply loved and equally missed…..

If anyone has a memory they would like included please add in comments section and it will be incorporated in future versions…..

Also if anyone has a list of the names would like to add that to this….

God Bless

I could live forever and still
never forget your face, unlike
the other girls who I knew
I was too old and ugly for
but there you were, dressed fit
to **** in your black beret, short
shorts the color of a forest, a Che
T-shirt cut above your navel, a
ragged copy of the Manifesto
in your back pocket, like a bandanna
to cough in, playing the cello
so well in all the cafes around town
a mournful sound like the wind makes
at night when I go to visit your grave.

bandanna knotted in your hair,
you are
eloquently attired, and almost
always a little late; it ok.
you aren't
beholden
to standard notions of
punctuality or
Americanized dreams of
mechanistic triumph over the
virus of Nature.
you are more and less and equal to
the sum of your
constituent parts and
you are exquisite.

This is how i remember it...

The first time that i saw her
was on the 14th day of July.
It has been exactly one year
since the day i laid my eyes
on this beautiful girl
and on that day
I knew exactly what love
looked like.
Love wore a red plaid shirt and
a red bandanna.
Love took my breath away.
I just knew that
I had to know her name.
Moments passed,
I finally gained the courage to
ask Love to join me.
Then there i was,
Staring at Love,
as if I couldn't believe
that she's finally here
after years of searching for her.
Love reached out her hand,
opened her mouth,
and said her name.

Right there and then, I knew that Love has entered my life.

i remember when my mama took me up the mountain,
she told me,
"now, you are ready."
and pine and oak softly fluttered their leaves at my arrival.
there were yellow flowers,
growing wildly,
strangling the delicate blue blossoms,
made of flimsy roots and spindly bosoms.

i was the youngest in a tribe of
golden skinned people;
dreadlocks, tattoos,
moon cycles on the sides of their eyes,
and hair like cattails whispering in the dark.

with my stomach churning,
i entered the tall, dimly lit tepee.
the medicine man sat churning the ashes
in an empty fire-pit,
and women stood around me scattering
flower petals like
soft skin
all over the red-dirt earth.

his eyes twinkled,
and told me things that he would only let the
dusk unfold.
i took my seat on a white sheep-skin,
settling myself.

as the night grew older,
the fire grew larger,
shapes elongated on the fair skin of the stretched
tepee,
the flames dancing wildly,
smoke drifting up into the
starry dark.

the fire keeper stoked the raging
yellow and orange tongues,
and the medicine man sat with a bandanna on,
his waterfall nose moving,
and his leather brown skin creaking,
as he told us stories of the sacred medicine.

and we sat,
somebody started singing.
my mothers warm frame was close to mine,
and my step-father next to her,
shoulders touching in the close proximity,
intimate, smoky air.

they beat the deer-skin drum,
badum badum *** badum badum ***
in native languages like
roaring rivers,
they sang songs to the medicine,
for the opening of the heart;
their swift and strong voices
rising like smoke and flame.

when the drum was passed to me,
i didn't know any songs,
wasn't aware that i had to know any.
i started to hit the drum with the padded
stick, and
closed my eyes,
feeling the sticky sweat of my perspiring forehead
drip down upon my licked lips,
tasting of wood and dirt.
i sang something lilting
sounds coming from the deepest
crevices of my throat,
being gently pulled from the grasp of my ribs.

the medicine man put pine on the fire,
it sizzled and breath was filled with
sweet and sharp.

when the air was right, and
the night was thick with song,
he uncovered baskets of small,
green and ridged fruit-like shapes.
"buttons,"

the medicine was taking her form, and was cradled
as a native man took it around the circle,
along with oranges.
i'd find out soon why.

i took two, small and light in my fingers.
i closed my eyes and took the first bite.

my mouth was struck, eroding teeth
and erupting tongue
my face contorted from the bitter juices the small fruit
held within its delicate skin,
my stomach churned and i swallowed it down
biting into the orange, skin and all
begging for a shock of zest to take
down the intense flesh of the medicine.

i looked around,
some people were on their third, fourth.
the beat of the drums was constant,
along with the quiet,
restful crackle of the sighing fire.

the second bite was less of a surprise,
and i finished my first one.

it was only at the third bite of the second button
that my stomach refused to go any more without
heaving,
the astringent juices of the
small fruit working its magic on my stomach.

i closed my eyes and embraced what was around me;
slowly swaying in the deep voices of my
family,
mi familia,
'ohana,
and the heartbeat of the
mountain drums.

soon, i felt weary.
my mother rested her hand like falling rain on my shoulder,
and i lay in the warm arms of her
shawls,
twisting around me like snakes.

a traditional rollie was passed around,
made of corn husk and hand grown tobacco.
my eyes grew slow and drooping,
and i fell into the waiting arms of sleep
while listening to the music of
tobacco and wood smoke, hushed voices,
wilting night,
dancing fire, and alive laughter.

my sleep was deep and dreamless,
my body carried to other places by the medicine,
leaving my mind behind.

i woke to rough feet on the red dirt,
and my mother and father intertwined like red roses,
sleeping below the tepee's watch,
my mothers white skirt fanning out like
soft sheets in the summer
walls.

there were goodmorning smiles,
light spreading from one set of a skin to another,
as my family embraced me,
told me they were proud and grateful to me
for sitting with them.

a bowl of chocolate was passed around, along with a crate
of juicy, pink, dawn touched strawberries.
i dipped them in the dark, sweet and rich paste
and one after another,
felt myself expand into the universe even more.
only when my mother awoke,
to sprinkling flowers,
and lifted sky,
she told me that the chocolate held the medicine too.

i made my way across swaying, long grass,
and sat in the sun, sipping tea with a sliced lemon,
making art with twists and curls of my pencils and pens,
listening to the experiences of last night,
the enlightenment,
the sense of overwhelming love,
that was not quite drowning.

i basked in everything,
let the heat soak into my flesh,
the lilting laugh.
somebody handed me a guitar,
and i sang with my chocolate tinted lips,
and let my voice float within and around the mountain,
filling the tepee and the empty fire pit
once more,
with the sweet and bitter tastes of
the medicine
*peyote.

Voice resounding in my head
(timpani)
Melodyharmony
everythinginbetween
harmonymelody

I­n the bloom of your
sprite-like youth.

You were His first creation
Women constructed from your broken ribs
and all else from dust
as you shall be.

Bodies of cracked red earth and
Sunshine
Of absent goodnight kisses
and cigarettes.

Skin to skin
Sweat to sweat
(whose is whose)

You
made of
Brittle bones rattling through your sighs
Pulsing through the sinews of your legs
hidden beneath thin skin
pale
beating, feeble heart


Who can tell from my lying eyes
behind the blackandwhite bandanna
(peekaboo)
Of a folded
diaphanous paper moon
amid a field of stars.

“Get that stupid *** grin off your face and kiss me!” And so I did. I leaned in until I was inches from her rosy lips, waiting for her to come the last little distance. She did so readily, with a warmth and a salt taste that I knew I could never forget. Her hand found my knee as I reached around to gently caress the back of her neck, my heart pounding in my chest like waves on the shore.
          We stayed that way for a while, exploring each other, the sun beating down. I could feel it burning my shoulders and back but didn’t care in the least. This was a passionate kiss, not wild, but with the depth and quality that so few have, the feeling that only comes with connection.
          We held the kiss as the waves rocked us, occasionally lapping over the side of the surfboard. With legs hung over the side as we straddled for stability, the salty water kept us plenty cool. It was complete serenity; one of the rare moments when there are no mental distractions and a person can become lost. Despite the perfection of the moment, I couldn’t help myself and the thought of pushing her off the board again made me grin trough the kiss.
          “What’s so funny?” she asked with feigned innocence. I could see the twinkle in those incredibly dark eyes, the little spark that always drew me in and fascinated me. Countless little freckles on her nose were newly accented by sun kissed cheeks, holding a slight rosy glow that was very becoming. My hand had fallen from her neck and I used it to playfully splash a little water on her leg.
          “Oh, nothing,” I said with a sly grin, “I was just, uh, thinking about how beautiful you look right now.” She knew me too well, easily seeing through my fib. Apparently I just couldn’t hide the way I felt from her. She had always told me that she could read secrets in my eyes, big or small, but that was okay with me. I had never needed to hide anything from her.
          “Is that so?” she grinned, with a devious look in her eyes. God I loved that look. She bit her lower lip just slightly and played with a loose tendril of hair that had escaped her ponytail. Then she leaned back on the board with her other hand, watching me. I had seen this so many times before; I knew exactly where it was going.
          “Well, actually I was thinking about pushing you in the water again. But then I remembered we were being nice to each other today.” I said the last bit with a bit of a wink. She had always said she loved it when I winked, so I purposefully used it sparingly. A guy has to have a few tricks of his own, right? She always seemed to have the upper hand on me, no matter what we were doing.
          I think she had me figured out as nobody before ever had. It was nice, to say the least, to have someone whom I had to work to surprise or impress. It kept me interested, kept me challenged, which is exactly what I needed to make me happy. She was a challenge. A beautiful challenge, and I loved it. It was exasperating at times, frustrating to work with, but I knew that in the end I would never have had it any other way. She was perfect as she was.
         A beautiful, dangerous, **** challenge is what was going through my brain as I sat there watching her. She had tanned this summer, her skin taking on a golden tone that made it irresistible to touch. Today she wore my favorite bikini top. It was red and hung down in a small triangle in front of her chest, patterned like a bandanna. Small drops of water still clung to her forehead and chin from the last time we fell off the board. In my mind, a scene of perfection, and she knew exactly what I thought.
          “Well... Maybe I’m not in the mood for you to be nice to me right now,” her voice trailed off as she pulled her feet out of the water and placed them just inside my knees were, to where her toes barely rubbed the inside of my thighs. The movement brought a tingling sensation where we touched and brought my heart to a pounding beat again. She was still leaning back just slightly on one hand, playing with her hair in the other. Her back was arched inward, so that the triangle of bandanna was extremely prominent. I knew what she was doing, but so did she. Her eyes traced up the board from her toes, up my chest, to my eyes. She stopped biting her lip as the devious grin once again took its throne upon her face. **** that grin.
          “Actually, I know I’m not in the mood for you to be nice to me right now.” This time her voice was laced with seduction, barely audible above the waves meeting the shore. She slid her body along the board towards me, her legs underneath my knees, my calves and feet still in the water. My heart was pounding out of my chest at this point, and my breathing was a little heavy. I partially hated that she could do this to me so easily.
          We were very close, her thighs slid just under mine, her toes touching the middle of my back. I lightly rested my hands on her legs, the golden skin feeling like heaven beneath my fingertips. She still had her back arched and she knew ****** well how good she looked as she slid her hands up the outside of my arms and up to my shoulders. She moved those rosy lips towards me once again. ******* she was beautiful. She stopped when her lips were touching my ear. I knew she could feel how tense I was, how fast my heart beat, how electrified I was by her. Then she whispered.
          “Sucker.” And with that she threw her entire weight over the side of the board, her hands and legs dragging me over with her. The salt water rushed up my nose and into my eyes, burning. I surfaced, spluttering, trying to see again to the sound of her laughter. I stood up, the water only a few feet deep out here on the sand bar.
          “**** you **** you **** you!” I did my best to sound angry, but I couldn’t keep myself from smiling through it all. She was still laughing, loving her own joke. I splashed water in her face, still dripping wet.
          “I hate you.” She knew that every time I said it, that I meant the exact opposite.
          “The look on your face as you went over. Oh my god. You totally thought you were going to get some on a surfboard. Oh my, pffft that was funny.” She was still laughing, standing a few feet away, having not defended herself from my frustrated splashes. The look on my face was a mixture of amusement and frustration. I knew she loved the look, it gave her some sort of satisfaction in having gotten the best of me. I watched her walk through the warm water over to where I stood, arms crossed in front of me. She wrapped herself around me, giggling, and reached up to kiss me again.
          She was always a challenge, this girl. Always a beautiful challenge.

“Hello”. I could hear that word spoken in a solid, yet slightly sadistic voice. The word almost drowned out by my body’s natural urge to find stability. I could only think of the show in my head, I should be on stage pleasing my thousands, well, pushing a few hundred fans and making them beg for an over the top encore that would happen anyway. Instead of being on that stage, I was in this room, my body horizontal with white ceilings you would only see in a house of a human with obsessive compulsive disorder, or in a hospital. I had no reason to be in a stranger’s house, so through deduction, I have figured out I was in a hospital. The ceiling was coming into focus and I heard the same voice ask
“Is there anybody in there?”.That seemed like a very odd statement. Of course I am in here. My eyes are open and staring at your white walls, I'm here.
This man I was hearing now came in my range of sight. He came in through the left. He had on a plain baby blue bandanna that almost seemed like a hat you would see on a ******* biker with a soft side. He also had on a mask covering all his mouth and the tip of his nose. This mask matched the biker cloth he had on.
To the right came a person with the same bandanna and mask, the same color too. Was this a gang? In a hospital? This human had straightened long brown hair; this human must be of the female gender. She spoke to me, in a worried shaken tone, she said
“Just nod if you can hear me”. I started to nod, but the movement brought a black shade over my eyes. I blacked out. It brought me back to a memory, but I was viewing all of it in a third perspective. The sun had set, and the soft yellow tint of the street lights lit the area. It was quite an empty part of the town. The past I was standing at a motel. I was on the second floor about 7 and a half feet from a frazzled man. He was still young, about my age, I must have been about 23 at this time. I assumed this was my brother. He was screaming something about hating. He was screaming at his girlfriend, slamming at the door, and totally drunk. He was quite good at multitasking. Finally in a distressed voice, almost whispering, he groaned.
“Is there anyone home?”. Those words screamed at me, like it meant something.
The white walls were coming back again. No one was in the room. How long was I out for?
I rested, and thought about what happened, and I could not remember what happened to get me in here or what I saw during that blackout. (to be continued…)

Drop of a hate
Top hat;
Knitted cap;
Russian hat:
Pink *****;
Skulled bandanna -
Red; grey stitches;
Wool yarn -
Head itches;
Black slouching,
Sides pouting,
Hair sticking out,
Color picking: in;
Bear face;
Crochet lace;
leather paper boy;
Pirate toys;
**** mask,
Hold the wax;
Zebra print,
Purple ink;
Furried hood,
"understood;"
Thrift store cat,
Drop of a hat
I am yours:
There will be more.

Reflected onto the face of the sun is you.
You, who shine so bright
are an everlasting symbol.
A symbol of what?
Of the moon, of the stars.
Of it all.

And at the end of the day when I think about you
and I think about all of them,
The Boy With The Sunshine Face,
The Boy I Love More Than All Others,
The Boy With The Bandanna,
The Girl Not Named George Lopez,
The Girl Inconveniently Wearing Boots,
and all the others,
I think about love.
And I think about this group
and how we will undoubtedly fall apart.
And I think about how there's nothing we can do about.
Things change.

*I'm the same, trust me. It's only that everybody else is different

So you pulled again.
In Essex, in London, in Leeds, in Weymouth...
The list goes on.
Why do you always tell me?
I'm not jealous. You're just ******* them.
But that photo with your arm around her.
You ****** her too, I'm sure.
Complimentary of toga night you're pretty much semi-naked.
It was the two lipstick marks on your bicep that got me.
Not one, but two! On your perfectly firm, right bicep.
The one I gladly tied a blue ribbon around, whilst
my face was turning as pink as my Girl Power bandanna.
I hope you'll change back to the changed man you said you would be,
after the Fresher's fortnight is done.
If not, as opposed to ******* me emotionally,just **** me too.
It'll never be enough, but it's better than your smug texts! x

Aborigines in the Australian outback  
Among starving dingoes

A drug deal going on behind the bowling alley
And a butterfly knife waiting to be put into someones gut

Show some skin
Then maybe you will get somewhere at the customer service desk
Buyer beware, consumer keep cautious
Lay waste to that place and get your money back

They sold you an amphibian and told you it was a marsupial
The clerk wrote your inconvenience off as null

Off in Puerto Rico there's a cockfight
Pass the bug replant
Dos cervezas por favor
It's a steel cage grudge match
Brought to you by the courtesy of some man who's name I cannot pronounce
I got my invitation to this thing in a basket of tropical fruit
Someplace near substructure homes

I see a man in a bandanna looking at me
He turned out to be a free lance astronomer who has a thesis on starry quadrilaterals in the sky
He thought by betting on the bigger rooster he would hit pay dirt
But it was I who met pay day when I bet on the smaller, faster one

The astronomer had so much hate in his eyes I thought his corneas were going to burst
Be pulled out a blade and chased after me and all my winnings with the intent to puncture my torso and pillage my pockets

But had to go see a man about a horse named "Nunya"
Luckily I got away clean to tall the tale

A woman passed me on the street today,
a screeching babe hanging on her hip
she had a yellow bandanna covering
a bald head.

She must have had cancer,
but I didn't think about her.
My footfalls echoed on my trip towards the corner market
three blocks down the street by the Mr. Zip
where I needed to pick up butter for my
mom so maybe my sister would stop crying
once she got her scrambled eggs.

A character screeches inside my head like that baby
a little girl whose house was on fire in the
nightmare I had night before last, but I don't think of that baby
as I pass it's cancer ridden mother, aunt, sister whatever
on the streets.

I think of me, and how I need to finish
my next chapter so maybe one day I can
catch up with society and maybe escape the plight
of my own poverty, of my own disgrace.
Maybe I'll be noticed, some publisher will let me
write about this screaming kid and he'll really like what
I put on the table, what I bring to the table.
Like the butter.

The world keeps going, but here I am
I don't care about the world outside of my own perspective and
people say that's wrong but
there's nothing I can do about it because here I am
trapped in this weird vice inside my head where a world
that isn't the one I live dances behind my eyelids
it is where I live, though, but audibly, visually, sensibly
not.

My reality
It's twisted, like the braid of that yellow bandanna
on the head of that cancer patient walking
in the opposite direction of the corner market and
the Mr. Zip.
She's probably thinking about herself, too.

I never wrote about it.
I don't like to remember.
And few people know.

But I want people to know the story.
---------------------------------------


I was depressed.
My dad and his sexism towards me,
My moms screams over every little thing.
Everything seemed to be turned against me.

I wanted to end it all.

Death by asphyxiation.

Tying a bandanna tightly around my neck
And going to sleep.

I was sure it would work.
I tied it pretty tightly and all I had to do
Was finish tying the knot.
Three times.
So I couldn't back out.
I almost got to the second loop,
And I heard the beep.

I never read the text.
I just responded with
What I thought was accurate.

And, without my permission,
The knots untied.

And your name was the only thing I saw.

I liked you before then,
But after that, I knew I would grow to love you.
Something told you to text me right then.
Whether it be a selfish reason, or an instinct,
You saved my life.

And now you're a big part of it.
And I hope to the God I don't believe in
That it will, stay that way.

I wouldn't normally understand
Quite how to say it
But if you listen close
This might just start to explain it
You see, it's a secret
A tiny little world
Where a boy can be a boy
And a girl can be a girl
I had a house there
that I shared with my friends
We resided there quite peacefully
Drinking, dancing on the weekends

But an earthquake shook
the whole wide world
When my third friend
took to flight
Flew back to Earth
on a pretty pink balloon
Now he's the moon
But I don't see it out
That often
Maybe if you're lucky
One day the clouds will open
But I don't think that's
gonna happen

My second friend and I
Flew back as well
But compared to our tiny world
Earth starts to look
a little like hell
There's no bandanna in the
crack between
the bed and the wall
And I can't smoke ***
when I walk down the sidewalk

But that's okay
We're here to stay
Without the moon on our side
But we still got a whole world to change
I won't tell you how
I've told far too much already
But anyway back to the story

My second friend is lost
outside somewhere in the dark
the clouds are clocking out the moon, she
can't follow her heart
And I understand her sorrow
Cause I'm just a moth
on the wall
that was attracted to the moon's glow
Where'd it go?

But I got too close to the light
And it almost burned me
Don't get too close to it
It can burn you too
But it's beautiful
Magnificent and magical
If it would just come back
I wouldn't be
scared of the glow
I'd keep my distance
She loves the moon too much
I don't know if she can resist it
Or if she even wants to
the light burned her
so much she kinda lost it

"I wouldn't blame you
If you wanted to fly
our spaceship
Back to our little planet."
I can't tell her that
Cause I'm not sure
either of us know
exactly how to get there
Our only chance is to
take a picture,
make some changes
We just have to get out
of the dark

Which way is that again?
Well I forgot where we parked
But we can find the light again.

to my tattered brothers and sisters I sing this little tune for you:

Pick up a bottle
Throw away your lives
Pitch a tent under an overpass in San Francisco.
Collect tin cans that never rust
and pick for food in garbage cans.
Talk too loud cause your used to to hum and the buzz of the engines that never quite seem to turn off.
Your white noise, your little humming butterfly.

I see hipster talking cool cat bearing fake glass wearing tight jean preaching ***** walking down old man made a big buck avenue.
Maybe I'm just jealous that my ***** die from boxer briefs n levi skinny fits with out benjamin striding along my side.

Old punk rockers tye dye bandanna wearing sweet talking hard headed mother ******* that never quite seem to die.
Keep getting laid off and job offers but no parachute, no just in cases only no replies. Name your dog's royalty, let them splash through mud, don't you care if your old woman can't dare to see the beauty in your queen's ***** getting all wet from playing with new friends. "Keep living while your young"

The smarts can't hold a job with business's that no one really cares. You live your suburban dream with Rudolf leading santa's slay with light's too bright for all your neighbors to stare. Email lists, outlook express, phones phones phones out for a contact you may never see again. Where'd the comradmanship go when working wasn't work it was fun as well.

To young ones rolling half empty water bottles down stairs, covering curious eyes with baseball caps, sneaking candy cookies cause you don't care about sugar high's or blood. Listen to your music "its good for the soul" but don't wear nice yuppie clothes to impress upon those older queers. Ice cream scoops to big to bear, make no sense to those that hear baffled cries of young mans rise, don't be afraid to be afraid. Young ***** hurt, I know.

City streets, and landfill pies, composting spoons made of tater starch, eating new foods crying old cries. Food too cold, too hot, too dry. Empanada's good, pork liver bad. These kids is cool, making something of themselves, talk to no one, no need just feel the vibe.

White walls dappled with texture, more appeasing for the eyes. A house with too many switches yet no lights, not enough lamps for more shadows and less tries. Floors don't need no wood laid out, concrete works, it's cheaper too. The house stays warm when your burning money for fire rather than cheap rides.

This is what they saw, just a new age, a new time. This is what I see, and why I sing, and why I tell you all of a decade which may never sleep enough to watch the old sun fall. Those dreams may be too real after all.

The debate is on
I want to perform
but first I must
humidify my guitar
Ate dinner
now there's a lump in my throat
so I'm gonna sit here
drinking tea 'till I feel
paradoxically soothed and energized
hamburger and homefries
the summer dish
perfect for outside
but here I sit in my A/C winterland
conditioning myself for hats and gloves
The water's warming and rising
the mosquito larvae have won
Itching in Yellow Fever delirium
These grassy hollows
were once a worthwhile place

The new wonders are now
grotesque animistic anomalies
Today, face-to-face with rabid rabbits
Tomorrow, the white light angels
with hyper beam cleansing
     they could no longer bear to watch
from porcelain obelisks
the human media screen
of indoor inexploration
fail to hide the sins
from the scale holding counters
Justice, the lucky one
with bandanna over eyes
still heard the profit wrenching semantics
get drowned out from screaming harpies
Responsible gods stopped their foray
in fear humans will survive
Dark matter engulfs all
in fear humans will survive

A fist split the silence
the hard packing sound
followed by a liquid clogged choke
and Joe went under the water
limp in my arms
crimson red permeating through the cool blue salt water
of my parents’ pool
Nolan rubbing his hand - laughing
**** I didn’t mean to actually hit him
and we all laughed because it was a play fight
we were young, looking for answers which didn’t exist
so we filled the void like many of us did
with the seething, impotent aggression of youth
It went Gangsta rap
to punk rock
to heavy metal
and Joe and Nolan were in a band
and Joe and Nolan professed their love of Satan
because Satan never made them sit still and be quiet
they burned bibles and summoned demons
from an online version of the Necronomicon
and we went to shows
at fourteen and fifteen
drinking beer and whiskey in the alley out back
with all of the local rock stars
we hurled ourselves -
arms draped around each others’ shoulders -
into the swirling whirlwind of fists
and studded leather
and sweat and beer and blood
where grown men punched us in the face
and we gave back as good as we got
hugging afterwards in the warm glow of our pain
we were alive on the front lines
hanging from the edge that everybody else strayed from
domesticated wolves scared of electric fence flags
Nolan went crowd surfing at the Municipal Waste concert
only to be dropped into a stomping pile of ******* kids
his lips split open and I gave him my bandanna to soak up the blood
I still have that ***** rag around here somewhere
He needed six stitches inside his lower lip
but we didn’t leave until after the show
even when the fire marshals came to shut us down
when ceiling fans and trash cans were being thrown around like beach *****
we were just kids
confronted with the meaninglessness of everything we had been raised to hold on to
like life rafts
we were just kids to whom
destruction seemed far more important
than creation
if we were ever going to make anything for ourselves
in this concrete clad hell scape

I got a  little canoe
and set sail to the moon
I took my bandanna and pulled it tight.
Grand Dads bottle of Makers Mark was my good supply
some Marlboro Smooths and a old swiss army knife incase I got shipwrecked.
I cashed in my last paycheck and told my boss I wasn't comming back
I had a Full Moon to catch and the sun was already setting.
I ran into Johnny **** Eyes at Holiday Gas Station and asked if he had any of them mushrooms still and if he had a extra couple hits of acid..... "Infact he replied I just got myself a quarter and about a 10 strip of acid for myself but your going to the moon right... in that old *** canoe your Grand Dad gave you when he passed away. I replied " Yeah Johnny I got a Harvest Moon thats not gonna be waiting long mind if you just toss me a deal and give me the whole shabang." I pulled a friend card and mentioned the time I hooked him up with 4 double stack X pills back in the day and also cut him a deal on a Rothbury ticket. Needless to say he handed that **** over. So back to the river shore where I began the tale I was scared of what was to come, I was scared to just leave without anyone knowing.  I put on my old converse sneakers strapped up my suspenders put a little engine oil in my hair to slick it back and rolled my sleaves up in my flannel said a little prayer to Grand Dad that his canoe would make it... I remember watching him build it with his strong hands before the parkinsons kicked in... I remember him telling me that this ****** could go to the moon and back.... so I popped 3 hits of acid took a big swig out of the Makers Mark, Lit a Cig and said to the sky well Grand Dad you better be right.... You better be right

How did I get here?
I woke up in a chair on a concrete slab
That appeared to be surrounded by a field of grass as far as the eye can see
There were few trees in the distance
It was a cool summer morning with sun rays piercing through the light fog
Then I noticed women I didn't recognized sitting across from me
She had very short brown hair almost looked like she was wearing a bandanna of brown
Her hair was thin and wispy just like the features on her face
Her eyes were dark but she had loveliest smile
For some reason I was really comfortable sitting across from this stranger
We started talking and we had the greatest conversation we were just talking about life and shared a few laughs
We were both drinking some tea
I had a pink mug
She had an easter blue one
She talked with so much life in her voice although you could tell she was in so much pain but at peace with her current state it was honestly hard to watch
I don't remember how the conversation got to what she said next
She looked me dead in the eye with her tear filled eyes and said, "I don't think you realize how happy you make my daughter." I haven't seen her carry herself so lightly since she was my little girl.......

Up and over walls and weeds,
ever-towards the tower did we climb
wrapped about with anxiety and anger,
isolated ahead of the herd
alone, we lead,
a mob edging closer
to storm-filled skies.

A bed of rocks, debris of cans,
sky-touch achieved:
we'd been first
to reach the roof.
Lightning storm to the east,
fog to the fore
and soon, somewhere nearby,
a stereo, playing the music of my youth
framing the sound of people laughing,
people drinking
men climbing too high
but mercifully, never falling.

A green gasmask, a black bandanna,
two flashlights and two bodies, pale of skin:
we again set out apart from the mob,
lost ourselves in computer crypts,
lamp graveyards,
uniform-chair depositories,
a ghost-floor filled with superstition and cauldrons.

Varieties of folder,
both manila and hanging,
bound across your back -
you got what you came for.

So did I.

You know what? I need to tell you something. I'm ****** up. Yeah. I didn't know I was still so bad. I fooled myself into thinking I had control, when, once again, I really had none. And I trusted you when you held me, and then when you pulled away it hurt, even though I knew it was coming. Hell, the whole thing happened BECAUSE I knew it was coming. The relationship, the love, the breakup, and the fallout happened in one night, and I wasn't behind the wheel anymore by the end.
But that's not what I need to tell you.
I need to tell you that even when I was in your arms, crying, I still didn't know if I wanted to be with you. I'm so used to wanting you, it's a natural setting. But I remember it distinctly (and I sort of hate how distinctly I remember that night, because the good parts hurt to know they're over and the bad parts are embarrassing as **** and bring up questions and issues I don't want to deal with, like will I ever be able to be close to someone I love without being sick with fear? And why the **** does that even happen anyhow? And why did it have to be you who saw me fall apart, again?) But... I remember thinking, "Do I want to be with her?"
I remember wondering if I loved you as much as I love her.
And it's not that I thought "No, I don't."
It's just that... I didn't know the answer. I truly did not.
I think you need to know about this girl.
She is the girl who, 3 days into knowing her, I took her face in my hands and looked her straight in the eye and said, "I am going to FALL in love with you." and she smiled.
She's the girl who kept coming back to me even though I'm crazy, and I told her all about it, and wrote her poetry far too soon, and cried in front of her, and she had a boyfriend, and she never expected me.
She's the girl who picked me flowers at 3 am from the trees by the Sociology building and couldn't keep the grin off her face when she saw me catch my breath just looking at her. We broke in, and we pushed each other down the hallways in wheeley chairs in the dark, and she kissed me on the little bridge by the lake because we couldn't keep our eyes off each other.
Everything I do that makes you squirm, because you don't want anyone to love you that much, that's the stuff that makes her grin even when she doesn't want to. Even when she thinks it's a terrible idea to be out in the middle of the night with a girl she barely knows, holding hands where somebody might see.
She is the girl I was sure would **** me over, who hasn't yet.
And that doesn't mean she won't. I know that. But...
When I met her, I told myself it wouldn't be like it was with you. I wouldn't love someone who hated all the little things I thought about them.
So I just said them.
All.
From the moment we met, if I thought she was beautiful, I let myself whisper it to her like a prayer. I've traced her face with my fingertips. I've handed her every poem I ever wrote about her. I've woken up in the middle of the night beside her, and told her with just my eyes that I was terrified she would be gone if I closed them, and she said, "It's okay, come here." and held me until we fell asleep again. And the next day, she didn't hate my weakness for her.
She knows that if she walks away from me, I stand and watch her go until I can't see her anymore, and even then, stand a minute more just hoping I'll glimpse her again.
Every time I walk over that bridge where she kissed me, I throw a penny off and wish for her.
Every time I see a flower growing and I'm going in that direction, I pick it and I leave it there for her, because I like giving her flowers, even if she never sees them.
Every single night that I walk outside, I look up, and find the first star I see and say her name under my breath. I do it so often that I do it in my dreams without intending to.
I wear that bandanna because I wore it on Halloween, when I was a gypsy and she kissed me on the 4th floor at 4:30 in the morning, and I was brave enough to ask her if she was ******* with me, and she was brave enough to tell me she wasn't, and I was crazy enough to force her to meet my eyes and say, "I am in love with you." and she was crazy enough to smile at me and kiss me, instead of running away.
That was the night that, after she went into her room, I sank to my knees in the hall and cried, and I thought to myself, "Come back, I'm still here. Know I need you." and *******... the door opened, and she walked out and saw me wiping tears away and held me,
And I looked up at her like she was god and I kissed her fingertips and asked her how she knew, and she said she just did.
That's this girl.
And yeah, it's unlikely this will end well. Look at me, and my life, and my emotions, and the **** I've been through, and what a ******* disaster you and I can be if we are both stupid at the same time.
But the thing is... I'd rather be me than you. I'd rather have these experiences. It hurts, and sometimes it ***** so much I wonder what the hell is wrong with me, but loving someone the way I can is worth it. And someday, if I am brave and stupid and strong enough to keep opening my heart after people mutilate it, I will find someone who loves every single thing about me that *****. I believe that.
It might not be her. And if it's you... it's not the you you are right now. But it will be someone.
And if someday you find that you love me, and you are ready to try and give me what I need instead of giving me what you think I'm demanding and then taking it back, and I've found someone like this girl, or someone even greater than her.... Then I'm really sorry.
I'd rather be me than you. I'd rather risk everything, every ******* time, for that tiny chance that my love will work out, than spend my life being practical, and recoiling from the people who give more to me than I think I deserve.
**** deserving. **** plans. **** fear.
Even as I am consumed by it I can say that: **** fear.
That's what being brave is.
I know that people I love can have that effect on me, and here I am, trying to find them anyway.
What's anyone's excuse? Fear? **** that.
Life is so short.
I want to love someone so much that I love the stars.
That I love every flower I see growing.
That I love every lucky penny and little footbridge and time the sun reaches through the clouds.
I want to love someone so much that the happiness they give me scares me.
That I feel home. Everything else is a waste of time, time I don't have.
Somewhere somebody will take me as I am, and she might not understand fully, but she will be tolerant. She WILL understand that I am easy to misinterpret, and easy to push away, and hard to help. She'll get that whatever she gives me, she better MEAN it, FOREVER, because it is worse to give me something I need and take it away than to just leave me without anything at all. And she'll stay when we fight. And she'll stay when we don't. And she'll smile when her beauty takes my breath away, not because she necessarily agrees with me, but because she feels lucky that anyone could see her in such a beautiful way and still accept her flaws.
Someday I am going to BE happy. And it'll take work, and it'll take me getting hurt by a lot of people, and it'll take me wanting to give up and never quite being able to, but it will happen. Because I can't give up.
This girl I fell for who's not you, who I miss, who I dream about, who I hope will love me... she's a symbol. She is the knowledge that there are people out there that I can love who will want to BE loved.
And maybe this all goes to hell, who knows?
But it's different. It's new.
And I am sick to death of the old dance, of being misunderstood and pushed away and blamed because I'm always willing to apologize.
I did that to her once. I said I was sorry for being too intense.
She said she didn't want me apologizing for who I was, that I didn't need to throw myself at her feet, and I told her I'd never known anything else.
I am afraid of her, just like I'm afraid of you. But the thing is...
I need to try for this. I need to try everything I can to find someone I love who will have me. She's given me so much, just by tolerating me in a whole new way.
Because when I met her I was shocked. Every time I'd do or say something and think, "This is it. She's gonna think I'm crazy. She's gonna RUN away right now." she'd surprise me.
Every time.
And every time she'd say something ominous and I'd be sure she was trying to get away from me and freak out, she'd surprise me then too, by saying things that were actually constructive, that didn't imply she wanted out, that honestly weren't hurtful because they were nothing compared to stuff I'd heard from other people I loved.
If there's a chance this could work, I am taking it.
I have the flowers she picked for me stuck in the dreamcatcher above my bed.
I have this flyer... See, one night at 3 am, she showed up at my door in her blue sports bra with her hair trying to reach its way out of a messy bun. I love her hair. It never stays where she puts it. And when I opened the door she blushed and stuttered and handed me a pink flyer and ran off down the hall before I could soak up her presence. And I closed the door grinning. It was a poetry slam flyer, and at the top she'd written, "Mikaila, do this. -TM". As if I wouldn't know who it was. As if she had been standing out there, just gonna slip it under the door and walk away, but had knocked instead last-minute. I love her handwriting. It looks like it'd be hers. I kept the flyer, long after the date for it passed. I have it, and when I miss her I sleep holding it. I'm pretty sure she actually knows I do that and still talks to me. If that's not extraordinary, I don't know what is.
The night I met her, she kept tripping over her words, apologizing, as if there was something she could say that would make me like her less, or something. I think I've spent more time looking into her eyes in the few months I've known her than I have looking into yours in two years, because you and I, our whole time together was so full of hiding, and she and I have never hidden. Hell, half of our conversations are through looks. When we met we didn't break eye contact for two hours, I swear.
When I think of her I smile like hell, and it doesn't hurt, it just feels... it feels like wondering if you made the school play you've been rehearsing an audition for all summer.
Like not knowing if the college you wanted to go to will accept you- If it doesn't happen, it'll hurt so much, oh... but if it does. If it does your world will be JOY.
And that's enough. The hope is more than the fear. It's stronger.
And maybe it'll do its damage, maybe life has a whole new torture laid out for me.
But I'm doing this.
And if I lose her, I will not lose my faith in love. I will not punish myself for it.
I will open my heart and say, "Somebody come in." and somebody will. Over and over until someday, someone will decide they like it there, and stay.
And if it's you, I will be ecstatic. Shocked, but ecstatic.
And if it's her, I will make her tea every morning and hold her hands when she has nightmares, and listen to her rambling stories, and learn the planes of her body the way I know the curve of her face because I still see it in my dreams even though I haven't seen her in 3 months.
And if it is neither of you, it will be someone.
Someone wonderful.
And she will be lucky, and she will have someone to love every flaw she ever hated in herself, and she will be forgiven for every sin she never spoke, and she will be supported through every loss and every heartbreak, and she will be given wings instead of shackles. And she
Will
Know
The
Difference.
Sometimes, when you love me, you say that my life will be more extraordinary than yours. And maybe you are right. But if you are right, it will only be because I am willing to do this to myself. FOR myself. I am willing to take these chances. And maybe you are too, who knows. Who am I to assume?
All I know is that I have taken chances with you, many more than you have taken with me. And that's why you have the power. And I don't mind. And I'll keep taking them. Because there are very few people on earth who I think could make me happy for the rest of my life, and you are one of them.
But you are not the only one.
And if you never want me for real, somebody will.
Somebody wonderful.
And that's why I'm still here. And that's why I won't ever be able to quit, no matter how bad things get. Somebody wonderful is waiting for me. You, or her, or somebody else.
Somebody wonderful.

There's a girl bopping her head to the music,
A boy wanderin' 'round with a guitar
Who don't know how to use it.
Traffic fills my ears and eyes,
Onions and smoke and fries.

Beat up sneakers and flip flops
Bandanna people with orange tops,
Hipsters, tricksters
Hustlers and saints
Empty, wandering, full of complaints.

Broken, discordant conversations
Elaborate, intricate exaggerations
Dusty, ugly sidewalk
Happy, ugly small talk.

Sighs and trees...
Silent pleas
From the lost
Who couldn't pay the cost
To belong:

An aria for the wrong.

All I had to do was lie down and close my eyes.
Listen to his voice take me deep down inside myself.
Suddenly, there is a wooden double door at the base of a mountain.
He tells me, "Open your unconscious and step inside... What do you see?"
A boy with blue saucers piercing my brain,
******* to a chair with a bandanna over his mouth.
Those blue saucers... how menacing.
I release him from the chair and he stands up and looks at me.
His blue saucers looking at me like I'm the alien.
I hang out there for a while until the voice says...
"Come back to this reality, shut the door behind you;
at the count of ten open your eyes."
I come back.
But him... he stays behind... untied but waiting.
For me to open the door again.

Where once there was unbridled hope and fearless confidence of mind and body, the burdens of physical affliction and debt have rendered me a withering, arthritic shell of my true potential. Framed by diplomas, a stacked, 4-tiered wooden bookshelf and a collage of vintage family photographs, I soothe my malaise of profound underachievement by spinning words into cryptic verses and esoteric pontifications on an array of topics, old and new. One rush of inspiration yields a collection of free verse poetry for the virtual world. Another, an op-ed on the fallacy of US capitalism. And yet another, a series of jazz-album-cover-inspired digital art crafted in Photoshop with bold color schemes, a super long shot for the coveted “t-shirt design-of-the-year” award.

Not one to point fingers or play the victim card, I fancy myself a driven, principled creative dabbler with an internal locus of control; an it’s-up-to-me attitude and approach to life; an itinerant entrepreneur with a string of failed ventures and a diverse set of underutilized capabilities. But time and circumstance, more specifically a once-in-a-century pandemic, moves those most at-risk, to contemplate their mortality, perhaps even their epitaphs. You stare a bit longer at your reflection in the mirror or listen more intently to the lyrics of Bill Wither’s “Lean on Me” and blackbirds chirping in the trees or savor the aroma of your favorite dish simmering on the stove top, as if today could be the day before your last. Your senses heighten in anticipation of the grand finale and you take a prescient lap around the finite wonders of your world.

Stricken by cabin fever, I sought relief in the outdoors and took a long walk yesterday along the winding streets of my subdivision, to observe those aforementioned finite wonders of my world. Having recently watched a video clip sent to me on WhatsApp about the various modes of COVID-19 transmission, I covered the lower half of my face with a red, green and yellow Guyanese flag bandanna, just in case those lighter, bio-aerosol particles of death were floating around in the air, as described. For a sobering moment, I wondered whether the sight of a black man with a bandanna would terrify any of my mostly white neighbors in the Deep South – I live in the rural suburbs of Georgia about 60 miles south of Midtown Atlanta.

Sadly, no other demographic, particularly those of the Caucasian persuasion, would ever have such concerns. But this is 21st century America. This is Henry County, Georgia. Not much has changed vis-à-vis blacks, in the hearts of many white folks whose ancestors owned plantations and slaves; whose names can be seen on street signs across the county’s landscape – McGarity, Jackson and Buchanan. One of my neighbors even has a confederate flag flying high from his roof top. This is Trump country folks. A brother can’t be too careful or paranoid in these here parts.

My walk was uneventful. A few nice white people waved at me as we passed each other – maybe I was being too paranoid about them. Hmmm….

After an hour or so of fresh air, me and my creaky knees returned to the crib. Like many Americans (not all), I am listening to and observing the CDC’s guidelines and recommendations to stay at home, wash my hands, wear a mask or bandanna when outdoors and observe the physical distancing boundaries of 6 to 13 feet.

These are indeed trying times. Times to adjust and reflect and find ways to stay motivated and engaged and inspired. It’s even more challenging for people like me, a few months shy of 60, with an auto-immune condition and a weak ticker. Times to get tested if you can. To remove uncertainty from the isolation equation and eyes of loved ones. The scariest thing about this novel COVID19 virus is its asymptomatic mode of transmission. Untested, everyone is potentially an infected carrier. Rachel Maddow stated on her MSNBC show last night that less than a million tests have actually been done in this nation of over 300 million people. That’s scary too.

So will we ever go back to the way things were in 2019?

Are our days as huggers, dappers, kissers and hand-shakers over?

Are physical distancing, working remotely, and wearing masks and gloves our new norms for the near future?

Who knows. One thing’s for sure: if you are reading this lament, YOU ARE ALIVE!
Over 134, 000 lives worldwide were cut short by this deadly virus…and counting. That’s a whole lot of humans in a short span of time. This is indeed WAR my friends. There will be a time to worry about those all-consuming material things again. But until then, let’s all focus on STAYING ALIVE!

Especially those of us who’ve had a few skirmishes with the Grim Reaper.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

By Pablo (James G. Paul Sr.)

Blog: https://jpcreates.wordpress.com/2020/04/16/a-quarantined-brothers-lament/
Portfolio: www.jamesgpaulsr.com

his bandanna lays tied, near the wall
mixed in with his bed sheets
bound by his hands, so forcefully held
restrained
thrown carelessly upon the bed
mixed with alcohol and sweat from vigorous activity
stuck in a loop, prepared to be reached for
and ****** on once again

every fiber shifting and stretching
to fit him just right
trying to look good,
desirable
casually available
wanting to see him again

what was once used for the party,
and the night that followed,
is lost in the crack between the bed and the wall
the Sunday beams of light
erase the memories of before
and he no longer wishes to see
where the bandanna has gone

The Bad Kids were the ones your mother warned you about. The kids with messy hair and ***** fingernails as well as thoughts. The ones that rode their bikes with no helmets and looked the other way when their parents called their names. But you couldn't resist, could you? You couldn't stay away from the girls who stuffed their bras and twirled cigarettes in their fingers as if they didn't have coughing fits whenever they exhaled.

They took you under their wing and promised to show you what it really meant to live. You followed, unaware of all the danger you might face. And when the girls with alcohol on their breaths took your hand and led you behind the dumpster to smother you with kisses, not once did you think about your mother's warnings. And when the boys who wore their pants low and kept switchblades in their pockets pressured you into robbing the local convenience store, you felt on top of the world, didn't you?

Everything seemed perfect then. You finally had friends that liked you for you and thought you were 'cool'. Little did you know that all they wanted from you was what you could do for them. They didn't really care about you, no matter how much you tried to convince your mother that they did. When your so-called friends finally realized that you were too good of a kid to be a part of their group, they kicked you to the curb and left you stranded. You spent day after day begging them to take you back, but they stared you down with their cigarettes hanging out of their mouths. Your mother waited for you by the door with her hands on her hips. When you walked in with your head lowered, sporting a torn bandanna and a leather jacket, she chuckled.
"I told you so."

In Carson you took my hand as we crossed the whitecapped river - cold water cramping toes, we minced our way along algaed rocks like cats tiptoeing on ice
But in Tillamook we hunted Dungeoness crab and I roared for you
Did you hear?
We were hunting our kin - and I wondered if this could be sacrilege to the Cancers, perhaps not
But I heard the quiet "Thankyou," given to each one as you lowered them into the ***, the reverence in your voice soothed me like the pounding of the Pacific arm along that beach - my own golden shore -
I thought I had lost it you see -
Hidden in the dunes we consumed the flesh of the ***** and sat down to watch the sun melt into the blue
I wanted to say thank you too
But the words escaped me like your bandanna flying out from the truck
Like those ***** in the bay below who felt us tugging at the lines and crawled out of the ascending baskets, escaping death from our mouths
I like to think that we are them as well
Because we both run from comfortable prisons, the pillow that cradles the head but entraps the heart.

this is the story of cedric hyde-fleet
the most un-cowboy cowboy you ever would meet
cedric was english, not british you see
but, being a cowboy was what  he wanted to be

he was from england
as i said before
never ridden a horse
and well, what's more
his image of cowboys
was of those on tv
but, being a cowboy
was what he wanted to be

he was all set to travel
and leave his home land
out to the west
but, he was allergic to sand
the dust would wreak havoc
with his pale, flaky skin
ten miles from home
was the furthest he'd been

he had a six shooter
which he'd nicknamed Old Burt
but, he didn't have bullets
they made his ears hurt
the smell of the powder
and the noise of the gun
made cedric wonder
if this would truly be fun

he needed a cream
for the chafing down there
and a specialized hat
to protect his thin hair
a brush wouldn't do
he would need a nice comb
he reacted to flannel
so he'd get shirts from rome

he'd fly out from london
head out west to a ranch
find a town just like gunsmoke
and a bar....the long branch
but, his stomach was tender
hard liquor was out
and the salt in the food
would just trouble his gout

but, cedric hyde-fleet
was determined to go
to the united states
to join a wild west show
he'd start out learning riding
how to shoot, and all that
he'd learn about cattle
he had his own hat

he was the most un-cowboy cowboy
they would have in the west
but, with his dedication
he would soon be the best
he would get all equipped
from dolce and gabbanna
his shirts and socks matched
his silk plaid bandanna

now, cedric hyde-fleet
never ever left home
never got on the horse
or got shirts made in rome
the things that he wanted
were the things that he'd seen
and he forgot about cowboys
when he first saw ....The Queen