after an oil spill mowed the lawn
for eleven an hour,
tiny migrants crowded the greenhouse gate.
the bug ****** moonwater muddied
the steps of the tenderhearted
community (of seed undertakers),
and made its way by means of caked rubber
into the cytophotocycle,
where the moonwater volatilized.
liquid volery.
vivid luck.
awoken like post-dream nap perspirants -
oneiroceiving precipitate;
the greenhouse grew murals in condensation,
the accidents si quieros.
a misty opacity attrited
like deskinning a spider,
with a definitude of exo scaling tons;
memories shed,
shies misled.

        ⌂ the greenhouse stands where a glacier once
        slipped, clumsy as steadfast could be.
        foreign fruit fits inside it.
        it knows not what it grows.

        🌢 the moonwater was salt-lipped for a while.
        where it passed through, it was soiled.



you’d be surprised how many things hit glass.
the moonwater didn’t realize what volume
seizes space
until it heard its kind on the outside. from the inside.
Venus has a reassuring kiss when a drone is dampened.
there were three rows for puddling;
one for naps,
one for not naps,
and one for knotted gnats laying hot eggs
in lustrated bloom.
flume frustrated.
somewhere far up the chain, a worn-out manager
ordered inventory off-brand,
and enchanted a horticultural hobbyist.
the devil is ennui and god is curiosity.

        ⌂ there could be a greenhouse next door, but
        it would be an accident, a leaky shed
        with errant sprouts.
        as it would seem to my lustrous heart.
        lagging and callous.

       🌢 the moon was uninterrupted that night.
        mighty sky drifters never passed between them.
        like a parent with patience or a friend with faith.
        like a husk that stole your pose.



the maceration was mutual with leaky infusions
of purpose and imagination
materializing into groundskeepers
that tamed the pressure of an ever encroaching periphery.
one time the moonwater nearly fumed its way dry
after a political candidate entered the greenhouse
with scissors promising bonsai.
but pesticides pass by.
and pictures of fabric mean less than bird song
or beetle guides.
for the frame never mattered to the moonwater.
no more than a furnace in winter,
than a flower in summer.

        ⌂ when it comes time for the greenhouse to deracinate,
        to throw her vines like limbs over garden walls
        and access roads, eye to eye with cumulus
        monoliths; her moonwater sweat will slip
        through the glass glue and slide down to
        her fingers . . . to feel what she feels

        🌢 i love pooling here
        🌢 i love steaming and raining here
        🌢 i will love being the halo in your refraction

dreams hang within a pedestal of lies
cactus flowered drifters
silent mouths, silent minds
I remember a night
a blue moon in Amsterdam
golden eyes, orange smiles
a hapless passerby

but oh how those nights
still scream my name
and yet i'm here sitting in vain

i'm not bitter--
but i've spent all my yesterdays
watching frogs fall from skies
dry winds still blow dust
from the paradise that
used to be.
oh those nights

oh those nights

oh those nights
so there


i guess
i'll keep wondering
keep wondering
if they'll ever be
here for me

The blue-green ocean
spreads out like a fan
before us

our dry, sand imbedded
feet approach

we are timid birds -
uncaged

fearful of the gait
of our shadow

but sand is forgiving
and we step

inch by inch towards
the water

we are so close
that I can taste
the salt

brown seaweed
sticking to my
naked soles

what did we come
here for?

I wanted to see the sun
reflected on a liquid
mirror

I wanted to forage
and find

treasure

but we are stolen
by the waves

carried out across
the shore

we are made
of yesterday's
passion

our bare skin
wrinkling

with age

we have found
nothing but

ourselves

hopeless drifters, now
unclothed, unhinged

and tethered to

the tide

The old ones seem haunted
even with ole Presidents
making their whistle-stop
campaigns.
Blacks on their exodus from the south,
streaming into them, one can visualize
with their souls and
spirits accompanying them as they seek
a decent life.
Imagine the shoeshine stands with their shoeshine “boys” and black attendants in the restrooms
which was probably as far as some of
them got.
The newsstands with their variety of
newspapers and sundries alerted
the lonely travelers to Wall Street
and elsewhere, businessmen
who would stream in with a sophistication
the common traveler feared.
The smells of leather baggage,
the cleanser that porters used
to keep the coaches clean wafted in.
The smell of cigars and wrinkles
of old men’s skin let us know
that the porters would be appearing
with a bevy of special guests.
History speaks in these stations
as well as some bus stations
around the country with their
dangerous drifters who would serial ****,
and the ambitious young talents off
to the big city to seek success who we would
later never hear of.
The local Union Station in Champaign has been
turned into businesses, but I can
just see Abe Lincoln arriving
speaking from the caboose and making
his way to a horse and buggy
outside to go to the local county courthouse.
Long live ghost-filled train stations
everywhere, and don’t let us forget
the homeless and destitute street people
who need to use their restrooms and
sit down in the waiting area seats
to take a needed load off.
They’re that important in the general
pictures of things, at least to me.

Spotlights burn confessions from the sinners pockets as their penance is paid penny by penny in spare change jars and guitar cases all along the interstate,
Go and tell the gutters of our suicide and leave a note in tomorrow's obituaries if they wept for us
If not, just ******* spare me
Neurotic breakdowns in melting rooms filled to fever with strung out felons just now crossing the lines of the tally marks that denote their resurrections,
And I long to start trash can fires with my wasted chances and apologies from former lovers mixed with equal parts sawdust and gasoline,
I've got more than enough to light up the backstreets I take to get home every night at least, but you know how melodramatic I can be
I'll be dressed in all black back against vandalized brick walls on some steps somewhere claiming to be able to read the future in a deck of hand-me-down tarot cards,
I'll be hearing the whispers in stuck tongues about my hair and how it's grown as I listen to the horizon waiting for the crack of thunder to begin the storm,
I'll be contemplating connections between drags of cigarettes in the hum of static evening with the drifters drawn like moths to the glow of empathy,
I'll be ready to go whenever I'm called, and I promise I won't cause a scene,
But now I think there's a girl walking calmly towards me, ignoring the traffic jam of my speech patterns and I find myself catching fireflies by the hundreds to illuminate her approach,
She tells me she'll see me in the morning if I ever decide to lay my head to rest,
And we wish each other good luck

I held your hand and shared in your fears; Sat long in the night, now I’m jaded by years.
We two are but drifters, two ships passing by; engulfed in our tragic Shakespearean plight.
At one time it was laughter, that roared through these walls; now suppressed sounds of mobiles echo some ****** tone.
I lie down beside you, wishing daylight was here; alone in my grief, for the one I hold dear.
Salt stains the pillows, as tears leak from my cheek, and I feel like wailing: though I make not a sound.

T* hough I know the truth
H urt still lingers in my breath
E mptying out into the street

M other to none, sister to one, daughter to two
O nly one slight problem, I want to be alone with
N othing to bother me, no one to disrupt my
S leepless nightmares, taunting day dreams
T onight I shall not rest until I find a way to
E nd these thoughts, but I will never
R est easy, not until I learn the meaning of peace

W hat have I become anyway?
I s this liar, this thief, this ******,
T he person I've always wanted to
H onor with the title of my name?
I s this black hole swirling inside my chest
N othing more than a shell of a human being?

W hy do I always end up asking the same questions?
I  may never really know who I am
L ike most drifters and loners and
L osers, I may never learn to love myself

N othing is worse than not knowing
E verything there is to know about oneself, it's
V ery unsettling, earth shattering, words don't
E ven make sense, strung together in
R epetitious strings, dangling from the ceiling

S till, a part of me, a very small part
U nderstands that my life isn't really about
B ecoming who I'm meant to be
S ometimes, it's about just learning to
I dentify with the face in the mirror, ignoring the
D enial that seeps through my heart, I know that
E veryone thinks I've lost my head. Well, maybe I have..

In a world of filled of hate
Love is not the enough
We need a clean slate

We have given up on believing
The superior, then there is the inferior
The rich and then there is the poor
The celebrities and there is the followers
Then comes action, follow by reactions:
Politics and politicians:
Beam us up Scotty:  beam then down Lucifer

I read this morning that Kanye W
Is thanking the lord for his S68 million refund
Here I am thanking the lord this morning
Not to be gun down, by the drifters
Or to be sidetrack by co-workers,
Only if peace would come sooner,
And haters would vanish…..
Like the children of Hamlet town

Romance them politics.
Make them easy to digest.
*** sells, mame your love on a television show.
**, **,**, there's nowhere for me to go.
No, no, no,I'm left with nowhere else to go.
I turn and turn and face the wind and snow.
Lord have mercy on my speechless soul.
Leave a mark so that I will know -
Just where I should go.
Lord show me where to go.
I'm a dog, throw me a bone.
Build me a ladder, to the cloud of my home.
Ancient instinct, not drool on a phone.
Caliope missionairy drone.
Romance them politics.
Feel their legs like wine.
Waiting for a message -
Waitingfor more time.
Can't count drifters,
They don't exist on paper...unless they're a poet.

It was deep.

Much more than meaningful.



More like a cornerstone romance,

from a library in the cosmos.



Like a deep sea scroll,

One unobtainable,

And nothing about it tameable.



It was like solstice, but not summer,

Like solstice, but not winter.



Like a fifth season,

One of its own,

Flaunting all the colours.



It was something enchanting,

Like snow falling on palm trees.



Something mesmerising,

Magnetic,

Hypnotic,

And blissful.



It was unclaimed,

Unowned,

Like land on Jupiter.



It was shocking,

But not horrible.

More like waves of adrenalin,

The ones that save your life.



But this pearl was less about my life,

And more about my death.



This was less about him

And more about me.



For all the magic I foresaw,

Was the magic that is me.



...............................................................­............................................

​

I am the supernova romance

Etched on an emerald tablet,

Clutched by Aphrodite.



A story you’d find carved in a dream,

Retold upon rising with bewilder and a gleam.



I was the dance to The Drifters,

Upon 11pm sandy shores,



The kiss under the bridge,

In that electric storm,



The naked swim in the caves,

That night the moon turned rose red,



The whisper louder than the roaring crowd,

That made you smile and nod your head.



I'm the twist of violet,

In an orange fuchsia sunset,

A besotted perfume linger,

Once inhaled you can’t forget.



I was the fire in that winter desert,

Where we talked about the truth,



The zest in your drink,

When we sat squished in that tiny booth.



And I was the 20 white candles lit,

In that studio,

On the French blue coast,  



The warm wink in the room when

You stand to give a toast.



Now I’ll be the film you wish you saw on the silver screen,

And the private island you only wish you could have been.



So before I died I was reborn.

From that shell without the veil,

From that pearl without the mourn.



Projection death on a canvas blank.

For the romance I have only myself to thank.

​

BY NICOLE BONOMI

The music's best on the dark
side of town, I heard. It seemed miles
from home, after waiting in a long traffic jam
But the lights finally changed
from glamorous shining to dull neon, covered in smoke
drifting up from drifters outside the Black Cat.

By the fluorescent green sign, a cat
was painted, its fur dark
as the alley I stood in, engulfed in smoke.
The cat perched atop Miles
Davis's trumpet. Bums hassled me for change
and a few drummed on buckets, jamming

with a harmonica player, synched as jam
and peanut butter. I stepped into the Black Cat,
and from the facade saw no change.
The lights turned low, the club dark
as the alley outside. A Miles
record hovered through the smoke.

The people chattered like bees, smoking,
waiting for the players to jam.
At last, the bass player laid down a line miles
long, the drummer chinked in, and the cats
began to groove. They chilled my bones with dark
melodies, pounding through spooky chord changes.

Soon sunbeams shone through the storm, they changed
to an upbeat swing tune. The horn smoked,
hitting riffs unheard, astounding the dark
faces gazing on in awe. They jammed
endless as the ocean. The cats
started to play a popular Miles

song.  The crowd hollered in Miles'
memory as the horn steered through the changes
with the skill of the legend of the Black Cat.
The band, nearly invisible through the haze of smoke
thick in the air, strawberry jam,
soon faded to dark.

Miles Davis’s ghost flowed through the smoke,
awakened by the chord changes, grooving to the jam.
The hippest cat alive or dead, now he plays in the dark.

The flash flood of euphoria,
is swallowed by the thirsty ground,
eternally unquenched.
I will smile,
and fix my eyes on the desert sun.
I will grow roots and bloom,
an endogenous cactus,
while envious drifters lick the sand,
desperate for a drop of rain.

curly windy wine drop cherry lip,
drunken blonde **** sunset ***** ****** sip.
sour goon bag, dumpers round the house,
***** crack, tip toe quite as a mouse.
fake *** men lies make me weak,
Kelly's magic dust makes a def guy speak.
eyes see in your soul deep and rare,
sorry if I'm outrageous and make the drifters stare.
this poem is not your everyday water,
I'm bonkers crazy defiantly my mothers daughter.
she loves you hates you cant decide,
if your in her life make sure ur down for the ride.

written by Kelly Arnold

Mildew clutched tight,
hollow-*****, manic thrusting,
marionette-faced, barrow-lunged,
nails bit to the bone-gristle,
lips raw with spit-polish,
redacted eyes, redacted eyes --
two palpable creatures,
transient drifters of soulspeck,
one unraveling the other constructing
one unraveling the other constructing
forever,
sallow truth would dissolve skin.

Lips read: founder a self.
Rusty copper
with adamantine eyes.
Steel core, unbroken by absence.

Drown in opposite directions,
oceanwater salve, yes
calloused tongues jostle,
ribbed in salt and rust.

Unlaced corset,
striped sweater,
grunged trainline veins
run on endless.
A clock,
abandoned in the middle,
I think once

it very much mattered.

You're hurtling down the runway and you're scared.
Taking off, 45 degrees above horizontal
until you can't hear anything but
the rumbling thunder of the engine and
the hissing air of the cabin.

One glance out the window
and your eyes widen in shock at the entirely new world.
A city of spun wool and wispy cotton candy,
piled snow and gigantic foamy marshmallows,
solid white mountains and hills of soft fluff.

You want to jump on them,
roll around and off their feathered slopes,
Pet, stroke them,
lie with them forever and tell them all of your secrets
because they are your best friends.

Be careful, though.
For clouds are a mean and sneaky illusion,
and the very second you touch them,
they'll melt into nothing,
break apart in your fingertips.

You will fall thousands of feet back to Earth with
your heart in your mouth,
a silent scream caught in your lungs.
Dazed, dying, you'll look up,
no longer able to see the world of your dreams.

With your last breath, you can only watch
the clouds laugh and wave a careless good-bye
as the transparent drifters move on,
blowing away faster than smoke,
off to catch the next unsuspecting dreamer.

Ive got a fool proof plan; play the fools
till we prove that we can.
no one will know quite where to stand
No one will know who's in command.  

They wont expect this from our own hands
its just a whisper.
something you couldn't hear
but you were jealous of the listener.
something they didn't fear,  
they forgot there were prisoners with
questionable marks on their fists, cementing as they blister.  

We broke walls when they stared at the blueprint, never stalling
nor stuttering our movement.
they’ were left chasing to our amusement,
like they were crawling and crippled with confusion.  


then we moved with the wind and its demands,
just a whisper
to every corner of the city
and the pockets of bitter history.
picking the tongues of the witty-
the lost voices and the drifters -
We’ll take the eyes of the pretty,  and the patience of the listeners.

By: David W. Clare

Hollywood town has seen all kind of characters from infamous to bums!
The hippest of all, exclusive dive bar that's been there forever; will outlast us all...

Not your typical cowboy-trough or rag-joint hole-in-the-wall...

No dancing allowed as silent drifters, hipsters and ******: **** on olives then ask for more...

Dress-code strictly enforced; some meet there to get married, while others get divorced...

You'll be sure to meet up with Humphrey Bogart and Cecil B. Demille, young **** chicks and a fat-director over the hill...

Be sure and tell the bartender you'll be back, he will surely remember your tie, coat and hat...

Welcome to the Frolic Room...


(C) In perpetuity all rights reserved
(P) FilmNoirWorks

In the high sky
Where the air is weak
And full of strangers
Nothing lives for long
Only gypsy-footed drifters
Come here on their way
To who knows where

And this place can only be reached
Without anchor or rudder
Nor even a moral compass
Riding on clouds of smoke
And it's such a long way down
Through falling-about laughter
And blood in the gutter
To the hungry crushing ground

                                              By Phil Roberts

i fell into freedom
my last sickness bled
wounded knees
are my omen
for fearing the regret
blindness ensued
by the art of decadence
lapping my loneliness
to heal what must be forgiven
suffocate in my web
of self care
mistaken for truth
support but no input
secure yet unprotected
cut out and crystalized

****** drifters travel free

Upon a huge, lush garden,
on a cold autumn day...
various leaves fall, in sweet surrender...
some still rise and go with the forceful wind
floating...along with dreams, wishes and prayers
murmured in the air...uttered fervently
...from near......or faraway places
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

papers, leaves, souls, sighs, and whispers
all circulate, dance in the air...blending with nature
like drifters...and seekers, far from their homes
their habitats...their comfort zones,
suspended, in the atmosphere of every season
...yielding...to the will of the wind,
...while the wind obeys...the will of God
they swirl...land, on new destinations
face new dimensions...
friendlier seas...no more running, just waiting,
while winds of change settle down
touching new base, new grass,
hoping, for a peaceful existence,
for some....the end of life's turbulent journey
..........on safe...tranquil grounds...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

somewhere near, or far...huge gardens exist
where leaves fall, where some rise again,
where new beginnngs, new lives are offered...
havens that welcome and accommodate
...refugees...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Sally


Co­pyright August 27, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

Tea with the drifters
lifting lids on the kids there and
they're all on the skids there,
the dossers and tossers,the pikeys
and grifters,
all with the same name and
sidelined,
blindside of the game,
and with nothing
to choose between see or be seen
we don't see.

We don't see the lean one,the tall one,
the
skinny and the short one,the young or
the old one,
the one with the dream gone but
we all see the hands out,
all fear the question,
(could that be me?)
'spare any change guv for a hot cup of tea?'

On a Sunday for some when we pray and give thanks,
there are some that work hard in the local food banks.
It is to them we should pray and not to some God of the day
who disappears at will.
And I'm sure God will forgive me for saying this system is *****,
it ain't right,
someone's skimming the cream
someone's stealing the dream and
all we'll have left is
the night.

I know I know I can get out of control,
But you handle it so well.
Catching stars in the rain and
Sneaking from cars parked in the lane.
Crouching under the roof then breathing-beating harder,
You would start sweating;
I'd tell you twice because you kept forgetting.
So so so loving every moment
(When I was holding you.)
When you'd say you cared,
I believed it was true.
I know I know I can get out of control,
But you handled it so well;
No resistance and I'm in
Sudden need of assistance,
I'm now seeking your affection.
(I have no time for reflection.)
Such a pretty picture
I cannot
Look away
Since I'd hoped, for forever, you were here to stay.
I know I know I can get out of control,
But you handle It so well.
Caught In some dream and in love with
How it seemed;
I truly believed I
could spend my life
with you.
I could see us together,
(And we were older)
Beseeching one another with memories
Of the times we smiled the most,
And I start to sigh.
I lye my dazzled head on your shoulder we are
Staring at each other;  I see you,
you see me and
I would start to cry.
I did love you you know
(At least I felt so)
Like we're hugging in the streets and
We were kissing in the snow.
(To our own beat, so
It is hard to let you go.)
And you held me
In your heart,
(Of that I am sure...)
Yet,
I couldn't make you stay;
You left me In the dark and
You've gone away.

Someone asked me what my greatest fear is. I failed to answer it honestly. It's a loaded question. Well, in English class today we were talking about last words & how they're always along the lines of "I wish I had travelled more, loved more, spent more time doing the things I enjoy" & they were never "I wish I worked more, been more successful." We were talking about how people who live in a somewhat wild manner (drifters, artists, people who dance on the outskirts of society) tend to feel much more fulfilled than those who succeeded in, for instance, a career path they'd always wanted. I spent the rest of the day looking up peoples' last words. And I think that's it- my fear, I mean. The scarcity of it all. The fleeting moments of happiness that don't have to be fleeting. I have hands. I'm afraid I won't use them enough. I'm afraid I will use my mouth for all the wrong reasons. I'm afraid I will do everything for no reason at all. I don't want to have any last words. Maybe I want to look up at the sun one last time, see it rise and fall. I don't want to have to tell you "I love you" or anything like that. I need you to know that I do. I need to know that I did it right.

We wake up most mornings with a sigh
Wanting a few more hours to lie
And get at least another hour of sleep.
In this thought we get in so deep

We begin the day with a smile accepting life as it comes
Overcoming struggles in all its form
But often forget to say our prayers
And forget to thank God for helping in all areas

In humans, four of every five
Keeps breathing but they're not alive
Living everyday wIthout having something to run after
Living life like an aimless drifter

Pictures don't ever change, just the people inside of them do
Whoever told you life would be easy, I promise was lieing to you.
Life remains the same, only situations change
Only God helps make them less hard and led strange

You broke my wings as I had anticipated
However, I kept flying as I had said
The case is not the hurt in my wings I feel
It is - you even felt no difference of the result

You did not consider how far I could have flown
How high I could have soared if you let me keep on
It didn't even matter to you anything, maybe
You are right, who needs a strayed poet or poetry?!

It hurts to accept sometimes a scornful truth that
Poets are weird and also clay-brained
Meanwhile, they can set a universe from a chaos,
But they can do it only when they are regarded

Who cares my suffers and fluctuations?!
Who cares even if myself cared about you?
I tried to **** the regret in your eyes I had given
But I see that regret has turned into humiliation

All poets are drifters, all have to be killed
And the one inside me worth dying the most
I give his death warrant to you to be fulfilled
I'd be glad if it changed the expression in your eyes

My father, gone fifty years,
A transplanted German,
Arrived early, in the 1920's,
Fleeing the worldwide depression,
That decided to follow him to America.

Traveling salesman, raconteur,
A busy man who decided he
Found the right girl at age forty,
But by the time I was teen,
He was, then uncommon,
An older man, an older father.

Raised three kids,
Working six days a week.
Unlike the other fathers,
White shirt and tie every day
Even Sunday.

No backyard in the city,
To toss a base or football to his son,
Though he wouldn't, couldn't,
While his son grew,
Grew up worshipping
Three Gods:
Mickey Mantle, Roger Maris, and
The bold, the bald Y.A. Tittle,
Heroic sports figures.

The son who went to Yankee Stadium
For the first time,
There he saw the color
Emerald  Green in the Bronx,
In The House Ruth Built,
Whispered Hallelujah,
There, courtesy of someone else's dad.

Goatee he wore, and on Saturdays,
Wore a black jacket, striped pants
And Homburg hat to the synagogue.
Custom of his Hamburg upbringing.
The only one, the only dad,
Of course, dressed that way.
Proud of his style, his heritage,
Helping me not to fit right in.

Yet twinkle twinkle did his eyes sparkle,
Such that all the other children loved him,
Better and best.

But I was the son with the unlike,
The father, unlike any others.
Age thirteen, he's asked me this:
Now you are a man, I wish of thee this,
Accompany me to synagogue every day,
As is my custom, and all your father's,
Twenty generations before me.

When he passed, the stories of
His saintly deeds, his help,
How he saved, brought many to
The United States of America,
Including his five sisters and their families.
During, after WWII, became legends,
all the while, trying to make a living.

One time, I was listening to
Rock n' Roll, on the radio,
In the den, study, his home office,
Where
The Stereo,
proudly sat.

Chased me out,
Paperwork to do,
But stopped me first,
Listening to the song.
That happened to be next.

When this old world starts getting me down
And people are just too much for me to face
I climb way up to the top of the stairs
And all my cares just drift right into space

On the roof, the only place I know
Where you just have to wish to make it so
Let me tell you now

When I come home feelin' tired and beat
I go up where the air is fresh and sweet
Up on the roof
I get away from the hustling crowd
And all that rat race noise down in the street
Up on the roof

On the roof, the only place I know
Where you just have to wish to make it so
Let's go up on the roof
Up on the roof

At night the stars put on a show for free
And darling, you can share it all with me
I keep a tellin' you

Right smack dab in the middle of town
I've found a paradise that's trouble proof
Up on the roof
And if this world starts getting you down
There's room enough for two, up on the roof
Up on the roof

Up on the roof
Up on the roof
Oh, come on, baby
Up on the roof
Oh, come on, honey
Up on the roof
Everything is all right
Up on the roof
Say that, "It's alright"
Up on the roof
Oh, we gotta go up on the roof
Up on the roof
The Drifters - Up On The Roof

He listened carefully,
Pronouncing with an austere smile,
"That I like, now go."

Now fifty years later,
Having failed spectacularly as a
Father, family man, having never saved a
Soul or life, I remember the outcast days
Of my growing up years,
With a different kind of father
Than all the kids who
Played catch, had big suburban homes.

I never understood much,
Always struggled to be one
Unsuccessful in fitting in,
In my high school yearbook,
They outed my anomie,
"Either apart or ahead of us,
Nat stands, uniquely individual."

So here is a poem, an apology,
No, more an anthology, an anthem,
Of, and,
To my pop, for resenting, misunderstanding,
How
You were more than unique,
How you were special, in ways
No teenager could see.

I am have written some of this before.
Tender apologies, but when I awoke this
Post Thanksgiving Day, at
6:00 Ante Meridiem,
In not my bed,
In not my city,
Pandora surprised me
Real Good,
With an old song,
Up on the Roof.

These words,
The ones you are reading did not drift,
Nay, they spilled out in shades of
Tearful regretful guilt-filled,
Pooling tears that cannot n'ere erase
Prior youthful errors, grievous sins.

Of course,
They like to surprise you,
At the end of their song,
Twisty surprise ending.

I will say it, not you,
In some ways, not all,
I grew up to be just like him,

And for that,
I will give thanks,
Not just one day, every day,
Until it is among,
My last thoughts passing,
Proceeding me,
Preceding me,
As I depart this globe.