This is a poem I wrote looking out my window this same evening in autumn I think I was just feeling a little lonely..


Life, it passes by outside the cold chained window
As I stare out into the light, out of my lonely dark corner
My eyes burn a little, I don’t mind though, I’m used to the pain life brings me
It has grown to a dull itch rather then a perching pain

It has been made null and done in by the pain my heart brings me
For the love of my life, the one who lied about his feelings,
He, he has ripped it out of my chest, painfully and slowly
Taking his time and plotting each and every single step he shall take

To make me suffer more then I should
I see a copal, and how cute they look together
But then I look into her hims’ eyes and see, I see what I saw in my hims’ eyes
I shan't worn her for tiz her own petty fault as was my own when my "incident" happened

I’m not mad at him, I’m sure he couldn’t help it, it’s just one of those unfortunate inconveniences
I hope it was anyway, even so I’m not mad, it was my own fault
So as happy life goes on outside my cold chained window
I watch and wait to see all the unsuspecting victims who will end up like me
But they’re different, they think they’ll have someone to blame

She accidentally looked back into eternity and it is telling her things. Constantly questioning whether it could have been on purpose. She wishes it had told her about the day that she went missing for too long. She is still missing. Missing so many things that happen and those as close as possible. She is missing them too.

She existed to be this close to missing everyone forever. Everyone missing her forever. Missing her orange kisses and purple thoughts. He left messages in blue in her thoughts. To see if it could make a shady spot in the bright yellow sun.  This is where they would sit and possibly lay down. There were so many shimmering waves in the grass that loose clothing rippled. Her dress was waving to clouds being emptied by the sunshine.

If they were to lay in bent grass blades could it be the last time. The last time the blades bent back and the feeling of beauty penetrating hearts couldn’t let go. The last thing they could ever want. No turning back. Time is bending the blanket.

Time decided to take some space to itself. To get back to nature and living with things we cannot stop. Life kept being left in the street with holes made in it by fear and hatred that is white. Life kept being told by whiteness that is was not real.

In this space that time took to itself the institution of white needed to become colorful like rainbows and hadn’t documented in its constitution that it needs to become different shapes and sounds that may be hard for it to resonate with while investing in such militant social systems of oppression overflowed from slavery in order to become a space other than time allows for a short duration yet brutally eternal and ending now as today unfolds and life proves it is real as time rips it apart openly and its institution of white judges itself into the panic of being so insensitive that vengeance has no other shapes, colors or sounds to choose other than violet revolt.

Violet made handprints in clay as a small child while reserving words for family that were taken from her. She smiled into the abyss of pleading that is too late for forgiveness. A silence of the white institution that could no longer be a burden in space for time to want anything to do with it ever again. Violet was intimate with the space that time took to itself. She nourished it with colors, intelligence, senses, shapes, love, merciless unforgiving power and purple thoughts were always encouraged.

Violet’s orange kisses burned into the early morning making the institution of whiteness a kind of blue. All that was left of it was confused and squinting at the colors of its new shape. It was demanding to know how long the spell had been on them and what to do now. Violent explained in senses and climate changing shapes of darkness and bright red lava and flashing pink clouds that there is no now.

part 2

I hope you like my shape of communication. I hope you can appreciate the brutality of the beauty in decomposing the unnecessary manifestation of apocalypse. The writer wants you to know its him. The narrator wants you to know its her. The sentence is time taking space to itself. Grammar is more of a blue than purple. The shape is the sense of confusion which is also the ****** of realizing eternity. The details are up to your imagination not mine or the author or writer or {[(black/white)[(black women/white women) + during slavery and after] + (Americans) (to make the *** trade of slavery possible) (political intellectually engineered institution)] [(mixed race) (native)(black African) (the rest of the world not isolating themselves in the social construction of whiteness)]} = having to create my own language because I don’t exist like I need to in the institution of whiteness (I have to feel it more than it feels me) that has a completely different meaning and purpose of imagined structure or patterns or symbols that outnumbers mathematics that are statistical boundaries invested in with the language that power is behind it somewhere that can only be found by using it.

Its uncomfortable for me to write the things I feel without feeling the need to prove their value to you. To build a relationship and undo it before we get to comfortable with each other. I know that you will never forget this during all your desperate imagination of reading and life. A thread that is undeniable through shapes colors and sounds but grammarless rhythm with more sensual texture than colonial organization and its friend decolonization making love instead of war most of the time.

So this again is why time has taken space to itself. The shapes of objectification in our solar system layering our consciousness with objectifying existence in space unimaginably vast and then gone all of the sudden. Actually assumptions are our specialty so we are intimate with them and emotive beyond anything real.

Vibrations sound like waves and look like shapes. She surfed on the shape of waves. She lives on the shape of waves balancing them with focus and intent. Of course she is going to use the most obscene language of the oppressor to react and demand the same brutal trauma is being redirected by her with exponential adaptivity as aggressively as colonialism on the institution of whiteness that changes little details of its shape to suit its foundation as the need for free labor based on her skin color and also the genes of her skin color to by association allow enslavement of light skin hims.  

Section 3

The flowers sat at the drum set to communicate spring. Some felt uncomfortable and decided to advocate for the drums.

“The drums are symbolic not just the symbols. Why should the symbols get the credit as being symbolic?”

As a gesture of listening, acceptance, and understanding. Guns turned to hyacinth flowers with jasmine bullets. The fragrance took violence over with a brutal ferociousness no one knew flowers had.

That same sunny day I became 6 shades darker in the growing power of the sun. That morning the same perspectives of my identity changed twice. In the morning the institution of whiteness (IOW) declared a false sense of solidarity with how I looked to them. That evening they ignored me like that never happened. They were squinting with confusion and nodding at each other.

The IOW was making a habit out of black identity. Settling with the concept that being black is having holes from their police and being silenced on streets or in the passenger seats of cars with their families. The IOW was making it a custom to advertise being black as dying.

A Rwandan orchid blossomed right at that moment. The IOW abruptly spit out their coffee and stood up together in disbelief. The sheer unexpected beauty became an unbearable pressure on their hearts.

The heart? Since this Orchid blossomed the shape of the IOS did not allow anyone but themselves to have a heart. This realization that the others had hearts was a serious need for a group huddle.

“These others with hearts we must assimilate with them as soon as possible!”

It might have been the deep fragrance of hyacinth and Jasmine, she thought aloud, or maybe the purple thoughts, but then again Violet played a huge part in paving the way for the blossoming Orchid. Cushioned by bent grass blades and a timeless blanket they intertwined in the shade of the bright yellow sun.

To my ex (you know who you are)

It's been over a year, guess what???

You've got a lot of nerve. First of all, it is you, the one with the insecurities. The one who CHOSE to carry your past into our future. By doing so, you destroyed us and the fake family you portrayed to everyone while I was "Daddy" to that ******* baby since he wasn't man enough to be a father. You use people to get what you want and when you drain them of every single last little bit you throw them away and act like a victim. But I digress.

Do you know what it feels like to live your life in fear? Oh wait, you do! Then why the **** would you have subjected us to that abuse!?

The games you played with my mind. Making me think I was the one with the problem. Making sure EVERYONE thought it was me. The lies that would come out of that hole in your face with that messed up pretty smile. The constant yelling, mental abuse, and your physical abuse of hitting me in the face several times and then lying about it!

*******, *****! You thought you were the "man" of the house. The one who wore the pants. Everyone was wrong and you were always right. Constantly putting me and others down....*******.

You had me feeling lower than dirt. I thank GOD for sending me a guardian angel disguised as a disagreement at my business. It was the kindness from a business partner that woke me up. Gave me hope and gave flight to my dreams.

God knows the truth. Be glad it's not up to me to judge you. I'm just glad it ended when it did! I thank God EVERYDAY for the strength he gave me to get out from under your thumb and start new. Yet you lied to everyone again trying to be a victim.

Now I'm bigger, better and stronger. If any women did that **** you did to me, now, I'd knock them flat on their *****!

Every time I think of you, I get ******. You make me sick to my stomach! You don't deserve the people in your life that you still have fooled and one day they too will wake up and see who you really are. Even more you don't deserve that son of yours that is just a pawn to you. He deserves better, much better than you will ever be able to give him.

What's ******* ridiculous is that you CONTINUE to play these mind games with other people who haven't a clue to your deception and fall under your spell.

Your son needs a mother who loves and adores hims. Not some drunk loser pretending to be something she's not.

That's what you were doing right since losing your job for abusing seniors, drinking, smoking *** and ******* ******* again? That's what I hear your new hobby is anyway.

And by the way I don't need your forgiveness for anything!!! I was falsely blinded by your ability to pretend and deceive people, while you spent all my money, ran my businesses into the ground, used me as a baby sitter, then when things finally fell apart you lied to everyone and managed to convince several people that I was the problem, the lier, insecure blah blah blah. Guess what ***** your time will come. Under that fake *** front you put on (which fails when your drunk) you are nothing but an insecure loser who hangs out with people whom you think are "below" you in efforts to make yourself feel adequate... I do have to say you have a gift to play people, you learned from the best, look what it's done for your Dad lol, by the way what's it like having a stepmom & grandparent to you son who is only three years older than you? I mean you both are in your early twenties! and your dad is how old?? Your time will come! Hopefully I be around see...

My nights are filled with nothing. No regrets, no mistakes, no happiness, or nostalgia, they are simply void. There are no sheep on my ceiling, so instead I count the boys I have passed time with. I meditate on their finger prints engraved in my mind- as if any of them had ever actually touched it. I follow their individual swirls to centres, to lips, and my own fingers comforting them, easing them, helping them forget. This is to the boys who I can remember, who I can separate from gropes and short dances. The boys who met my mouth with their eyes closed. I wonder if they think about the times? The encounters? Do they fluff our moments into their pillows, make room for our memories in their beds at night? Do they swallow instances like painkillers or stomp them out like cigarette butts? Do they even remember? Kissing me in the dark, squeezing their lust into my body in the morning frost? Rested heads against shoulders and wrapped arms around necks and waists? Does he remember my lips crashing against his after pulling off my shirt? Does he remember sifting through my chest like he was searching for my heart? Does he remember car headlights, streetlights, houselights, my lights- my eyes. Does he remember breaking me, remember filling my gaps, remember numbing me with his needle fingers, and does he remember warming me to another life? Do they think, do they realize their words and their touches were the air in my balloon? But there are a lot of hims, just as I'm sure there is a million mes but do they recall, do they think about me? To the boys I have lent myself to, thank you. When insomnia kisses me I know it is empty, I know I am empty, and we are just helping each other survive another nothing night.

there is havoc at the tips of his skinny fingers.
there is passion and fury in his rhythm.
to the eyes,
he is nothing but a quiet silhouette.
but,
his sound
burns through your ears,
down your spine,
falling toward the floor
granting religion to your feet.

the guitars are discordant,
the vocals are merciless and incomprehensible.
the smoke is perfect.
******* clad women,
drunken men,
just dancing,
crashing,
clashing.

i stand idle,
a regular sore thumb,
in the collective chaos.

but the skeleton in the back,
conducts the shouting symphony
with a barrage of symmetry.

scream.
howl.
holler.

focus and control are his,
not mine, hers or, any of
the other hims.
a psychedelic metronome,
a machine
of a heavy metal drummer.

sweat.
hips.
hands.

i watch him closely,
silence inspiring the noisy.
his eyes closed, his mind
counting,
while my mind
melts,
and all anyone thinks or felt
was the beating of their
hearts, matching the beat
of his drums.

We talk about being pieces.

Of hims and hers. Of moments. Of pain and happiness.

To say we are made of pieces, no.
I am made up of wholes.

Hims and hers. Of moments. Of pain and happiness.

The magnitude of those entities are unimaginable blessings.
They are wholes. What an injustice to the accumulation of our beings to label them as merely, pieces.

We are all made up of wholes.
Hims and hers. Of moments. Of pain and happiness.

I am whole without them, but with them. I am much more.
And my life is about being more.

//I am made up of wholes//

We married in the back of that old Rambler in that syrupy summer. Kitkitdizze mortared under pestal of our tires and its grind made an aroma of peculiar pungency. The moon was plump as an unshelled fava and I was about to peal her. This was all the commitment ceremony we needed. Stars be our witness. Outsiders we were, and the cliffs of the Malakoff Diggins where we did our rambling. I initially met her at her wedding to him, whence she gave her away, though rumor had it she and she were once an item prior to he and she ever meeting. Still, more ****** talk spoke of them being a three. This was all good with me, being that I had had that other he who was still bound to that she who had two hims herself. Lucky gal. Notice, I'm not naming names here.

It was our life and we lived it in polyamorous faultlessness. Gurus, rock stars, poets and other worldly scholars were all in the club. As gluey as all that free love was, most became unstuck in their ways. Hot, hot, hot sticky June crooners. Man I can't wait for summer to come again. Who's getting married in the morning?

Let it be, songbird
Let it be
He thought these words would make him feel free

But then she went ahead and listened
Now she's gone, long gone and a piece of hims just  missin, her

Let it be, songbird
Let it be
He thought these words would make her feel free

But then she had to leave
She couldn't bear it
Now he's lost her for good and unsure how he'll wear it

Let it be, songbird
Let it be
He thought these words would set them both free

But now all he feels is that crushing loss
Ever present to remind him
All he had is lost

Let it be, songbird
Let it be
Let it be, songbird
Let it be
Let it be, songbird
Let it be,
Let it be me

I miss the notes that,
Completed the symphonies that followed your love.
How the earth shifted beneath my feet,
As if the its plates,
Also felt the tremors of your kisses.

The orchestra of the universe,
Beckoned at the curl of your lips.
The stars motivated into melodic choreography,
To celebrate your happiness.

That was once upon a time.
That was when our love was alive.
When that love died,
Ominous echoes followed.
My heart bellowed.
Living became as labored as breathing.
Dissonance grew with thunder
Air gathering weight.
Every part of me felt absence,
As if your love suddenly became extinct,
And mines an endangered species,
On the brink of a similar faith.

I remember the glory days.
I remember how beautiful skies were
before you tainted them with,
Splinters of your shattered promises.
Promises to love me forever,
When you gave your love to someone else.

How the fallen petals once fresh,
Wilted, scowling,
They will know beauty no more.

How angry jagged peaks,
Loom over gentle rolling hills.
Can you feel it?
Because I can feel.
I can't feel every sensation,
Every impression,
Cutting amorphously into
Every dream I've ever dreamt
Erasing every inch of hope I've ever felt.
How cruel love dismembers its victims?

The damask surface of my heart,
flickers threats of gossamer hints,
as song birds chant their heavenly hims.
Memories of our sins.

I want to forget you.
But how can I forget you,
When you've left such an impression on me.
Euphonious melodies,
Imprinted into my my being.
Taking so much of me when you left,
You left me no choice but to move on,
To the sound of my doom.

What could I do?

There was a time when of our love,
I used to boast,
How can I now,
With these missing notes?

86 years 55 days
The website told me
This is how long
I can expect to exist

I am a pauper
Among the wealth of the Universe
Handed a dollar of existence

55 years 46 days
The website told me
Is how much
I have left

8 hours per day
40 hours per week
2,080 hours per year
I sell my existence
Exchange it really
For American currency

16 years 119 days
My dollar is taxed by sleep
And I forget that bit of existence

Let’s itemize my spending
So we can make a proper budget

I’ll spend 6.39% of my dollar worrying about pointless ****
4% going to and from the place I sell myself
2.11% envying
1.98% hating
1.21% pouting
Or yelling at the dog
0.99% generally getting worked up about nothing
0.63% filling out forms and paying bills and whatever
0.37% talking about the weather
0.13% riding in elevators
Though this can sometimes be bundled with weather
For nice discount

Oh, what else?

How about the times preening in the mirror
Or wondering if my shirt is untucked
Or if people can tell I just masturbated?
God only knows the time spent
Attempting the rock hard, rippling abs of my dreams
And waiting in line
Cursing the old lady paying with a check
And a dozen coupons

What I’m saying
Really
Is how much of time’s currency needs to be spent
Walking, running, skipping, jumping and stomping in a circle?
Crowing angrily about how much I don’t care for this
Or for that
About what and who are wrong with America
With television
With music
With kids these days
Moaning about the left and the right
About the ******* Imperial measurement system
About crying babies on airplanes
And people who think a billboard threatening eternal torture
Is God’s will

How long
Really
Before I realize
Who, in the ****, gives
A running, skipping, jumping ****
And two *****
In change
That caring about that ****
Is for suckers
Who spend their lives
On get happy quick schemes
And opinions you can set your watch to
Solid citizens
Who get their money’s worth
Out of their vocal cords

When
When
When
Will I see the question
Instead of being put to the question
And the question is and always will be this:
When did I exist with you?
How many hours will I put away
For a rainy day
Walking, running, skipping, jumping and stomping in puddles with you?
When did I play and touch and love and kiss and feel
You?
What was my time spent
Being
Existing
Living
With you?

When it’s all said
When it’s all done
And I look at the blackness
With my pockets pulled inside out
Shrugging my shoulders
And falling to my knees
How much
Of this precious little currency
Will I have spent
On you?
And how much
Will I have squandered?

How much time will I have spent working
And squawking about the thisses and the thats
About the hims and the hers
About usses and thems
Cowering
A trembling little animal
Clawing for scraps at shadows
Hording dust and mold
All the while
Hurling solid gold
To the dark

When that’s it
And this is the end
What can be more to my life
To my existence
Than you?

There he is, asleep in his house
There you are, asleep on my bed
just waiting for me

I smile because the sweet fragrance
of sweet lilies and passion
that lines your neck has already
permeated the room and it hits me as soon as I walk in

I lay behind you and wrap my arms around your
far too familiar waistline that my fingers
know far better than my logic should allow

You scoot farther into me knowing I’ll protect you
Protect you from the thems, hims, and occasional hers
You know I’d never let anything harm you because
my warm body behind you tells you

I reach for my Panda and when I turn back
I come to the harsh realization
that you put Everclear in my drink last night

It’s ok, it was a good dream anyway

The world felt so small until I looked into your eyes.
It felt like you just walked in one frosty morn
Into the vision of my vacant mind.
Filling it with calming hims.
Letting me know that you didn't have to be with me,
But instead wanted to be with me.
Feeling your touch wanes away the frost
That has kept me isolated for so long,
Meeting you felt like the first sunny day after the longest winter.
I know that more storms will come
Seasons will change back to winter.
But for now at this point.
I can look into your eyes that pair well with your smile.
Knowing that I won't have to worry,
About the Burdens of Tomorrow

My biggest fear is standing within earshot of a crowd
in front of a microphone that'll amplify my thoughts
i've always hid in print like a theme you just can't figure out
because if I write slow my tendency to mix letters to a spaghetti mess hardly shows
but when words find their voice in my mouth
its like a shuttle race gone wrong
who goes first, is it the stutter or the lisp
theres too many s's like success just fits and sits amidst words smoothly spoken
when i  read out loud I remember the crowd of eager faces witnessing my sure demise
when it was the top five competing for that shiny prize at the the spelling bee

dyslexia
...
your word is dyslexia

like some sick joke in a word i've never heard that would come to shatter how I felt about my imperfections
running out in a frought...no...i meant a fright, not quite sure if I was headed to the right

you see, if you all put L's up to your forheads in your dominant hand, they all look right or left...or right
I missed my turn
to show my tiny world that I learned to read and spell like all the rest
instead of in a tiny jail cell in my head where I would write words in every which way to try and learn them in a way that made sense to all the rest
but instead I turned down a road of "its your turn to read out loud"...
so I'd read really slow not sure if I was reading a history of Korean or Japanese in English
but written in their natural direction for impact
and i'd get through a paragraph before they stopped me
because my words choked behind my teeth
its just embarrassing

let me tell you
leaving highschool was more relaxing than distressing
eventhough everyone that knew me was now left behind
and so I packed up my life in notebooks
and sealed them in a recycle bin
like I could recycle the thought of them
but no matter if I liked it or not
my letters would come to know no order
when stumbling out of my mouth like a night at the bar passed two
because nothing good happens passed two am
but I write according to my greatest whim
when all the hers and hims retire from a night at large
and so im still stuck here with words leaping from my pages looking for a home, in mouths that know how to shout and let it all out
but, no matter what, im trying
so I stand here now choking out this combination of consonants and vowels
because I know now, my imperfections will lead me to a story only I can tell
so thank you for listening to this garbage disposal of spoken notes I swore looked better when I left them just to be wrote
in notebooks bound by the thoughts of just me

Sad today
For the might have beens
The what ifs
And almosts

I’m blue for you
For the hims and hers
The us and we
And what could be

Melancholy
For me and myself
The darks and lights
And the possible flight

But not depressed
For in all the mess
The hopes are near
And so skies are clear

Fifteen years old Corinne says that
alcohol is like confidence in a bottle
And she just ******* loves that ****
and I say, you know it's not something
you have to buy, at least that's what I've heard.
But I get her. To me, alcohol tastes
real real good until I'm drunk and then
it just feels like falling. And I get tired
of falling. Into things and out of things
so much so that I abstain from drinking
unless I'm in private and then
I sit in my closet with all of my hims'
and we get drunk together
and we **** to get her and
we fall together
like we get her. And we kind of do.

She is beautiful
but she can't see it
her eyes are clouded
by the fog of his
her heart is troubled
by the make of his

She's beautiful
but she hurts
every night her thoughts haunt
every day her eyes jaunt
of him
for him
But she is without him

Tears fill my eyes now
she's my light
but she's turned off inside
she's a barefoot summer
but she's wearing shoes

We all have that thing
and this is hers
I just pray
we all move past our things
   and those hims
One day

Fragment I

So long ago, so long ago,
You are just the bones of memory now,
Yet your influence remains in every gesture,
every glance of all the hims I've come to know.
Like a Cheshire cat bound for Hell,
You lie in wait behind unconscious eyes,
Watching and waiting--with a knowing smile...

prejudiced both against each other and , see
a red squirrel or fox the same, as a conveyer, of seeds.
The pine tree, or cedar, just as me, grows acidic
green year round, day and night, commenting little as
possible striving to get the sun and water,
not judging the broadleaf nor the four leaf clovers,
just rising above the reaches of it all.
Flora vs. Fauna,
aura in clorophyll, or flesh
the squirrels don't care what species,
color, race , gender, or whether you
like hims or hers,
just put in their pouch whatever, stand on back legs,
laughingly adorable, going their way.

how you laughed when you heard the news
rationalizing
he isn’t dead just in
a different room

and for six years you fabricated business trips
made your life busy
he walks out and you walk in
too many just-missed-hims to count

until

one night your wall falls down, and six years
worth of tears push their way out of your eyes
he really was dead all this time
he really was dead all this time
he really was dead
he really is dead

reality hits you hard, a kick to the throat,
a low punch to the stomach
so you curl up smaller
and smaller
until you feel you may disappear.

Feeling something
Lonely like a concrete wall
Cold in my bed under the covers
I want to forget
I bet they feel the same
You confuse me with your spiral eyes
I cut myself for money offer you
A portion and all my love
Yet I’m something faltered
Wrong for the right reasons
Wrong for the wrong reasons
Alone and waiting for no one
Unconventional methods
We tell each other how we’d **** ourselves
You’re hitting me through a straw
I’d prefer a bite of something sweet
Everything reminds me of him
All the hims really
Every new him is like the last but with a separate journal entry
Now I’m on a grainy camera trying to make a living or something
My dad calls me a failure to my face
My mother is violent in her silence
I’ll never be anyone else they see in me
I’m a moth drawn to the flame of promise
A flame I burn my skin with
Writing words for you
Not for myself
Because there is nothing here
I spend my days curled up with my own fingers
In the palm of my own hand

Need him
right now right now

Want him
right now right now

It turns into many hims
right now right now

But there is only
one
him

I have all of him

I’m Writing For The Universe



I’m writing for the universe;

No man or woman, special group.

I’d hope you understand this,

Aim, a statement/thought

Encompassing the concrete and abstract.



The philosophic reaching out

To turn into endeavors

Which depend on character

Which finds itself in x conditions,

In you, out you;

Efforts too,

All undertakings the result

Of birth and genes and chance surroundings.

(is this dance really just chance?)



Special needs abound within the needs of all:

The ego, vanities, the strengths, the skills;

Bad, good, dark, light,

Mediocre and the bright –

A sameness sewn in rich arrays

Of hims and hers,

A one which covers,

Pierces through the universe.



I’m writing for it all, the All, the Goal.

In short, the whole,

Myself included.



I’m Writing For The Universe 11.10.2017

Nature Of & In Reality; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; I Is Always You Is We;

Arlene Corwin

I’m sending this out to my jazz musician and jazz loving  friends.   It’s not a finished product by any means, but a spontaneous tribute to Annie Ross, who died yesterday.
Arlene

       Annie Ross

The loss of Annie Ross
Is loss indeed.
I was a teen in ’53.
Mom owned along with Slim Gaillard
The first jazz club in all Long Island.

There stood a Juke Box.
On the box
Were Hendricks, Lambert, Annie Ross!

There was I, a blossoming young, singing teen,
Young, listening, music major;
There were they, two hims and her,
Scatting kings and scatting queen.

Oh, how I learned!
How much I earned
From Lambert, Hendricks, Annie Ross!
They were my boss!
Not mom, not Slim,
Not Chet or Stan or Mulligan.
No, it was them!

And Annie!
Ultimately forming me
With E above high C.
Her ‘Twisted’, ‘Doodlin’, ‘Airegin’.

Eventually,
Lambert died (too, too,i too early)
John became a valued friend.
But Annie, who I never met
Whose influence I’d later get,
Has met her end.
And I regret not meeting her
And telling her how great
She was.
Annie Ross!
I hope it’s not too late to say it
To her listening spirit.

Annie Ross 7.23.2020 Vaguely About Music Ii; Circling round Experience; Arlene Nover Corwin