On my way home from work-- as I stared at the random stranger with the shy eyes but eager smile across from me on the G train-- it happened. It was almost hallucinatory. I rubbed my eyes, stared up at the lights and moved on to another equally random stranger sitting on the other end of the train. He wore his headphones with pride, and the smile beaming from his face was in constant motion-- lip syncing to some unheard voice-- when it happened again... I had an "Out of Life" experience.

You know those dreams where you find yourself standing over your body? Those dreams where you just lift away from your fleshy home, and glide? They're called "Out of Body" experiences and what happened to me on the G, was similar in sensation. Except instead of shedding my body, I shed my life.

Staring at these "strangers" and seeing their idiosyncrasies-- the girl with shy eyes, the guy with the proud smile, the uncomfortable woman next to me-- I suddenly disappeared. My life, my experiences, my families, my thoughts and worries, just silenced.... as if someone had taken my soul and removed everything that was Me from it and placed it inside a trophy case outside of Me. Inside it I could see the memories of my life moving and shifting. Some frozen in place-- the only memory of my grandmother was a black and white picture-- while some were vividly alive, like my first time on stage. But there I was standing, looking inside this memory trophy case wondering what this could mean.

SNAP! Suddenly I'm back on the G train. The girl is now shyly talking to the woman next to her, "The first time I saw you at work I thought you kind of looked like Loretta, from Family Guy, and I've just been wanting to tell you that for the longest!" she giggled self-consciously. The woman did look like Loretta, I thought. "Loretta" then distorts her face into confusion and mutters "Thanks?" and off they went into a conversation about work. The guy with the Dre headphones is swiping through his iPhone. And I am suddenly back outside of my life, on some distant fringe of the shores of my mind.

Is it dark? Is there sound? Where's the trophy case? Where am I? Just blankness. Then with an odd inaudible pop, the Dre headphones guy and shy girl appear in front of me. However not in their body form. Instead they're appearance is rather shapeless, more like glowing wisps with observant eyes. From within each of them I can hear the echos of their conversations of the physical world and the soft muffled singing of the headphones, yet all I see are these two energy globes staring at me; Not menacingly, not anxiously, but peacefully.

The crackled and static laden "Next stop Classon. Stand clear of the closing doors please." brings me back into my body, my life, my experiences, my pain, my insecurities, my job, my dreams, my hunger, my existence. I look at the two strangers... and wait. I must have seemed so intensely crazy, but it felt like it needed to be done. So I waited for them to just look at my eyes... and they did.

In that instant it all made sense. I no longer saw the shy stranger or the headphones stranger or Loretta. I saw beyond their experiences, beyond their lives, beyond their dreams, beyond their strategies of how to move through this world as a man/woman. For that split millisecond, when we made eye contact, I felt and saw the Me in them....That raw uninhibited self that has no country, no religion, no political party-- that part of ourselves that has been observing existence. That part of us that has no physical shape, that observer that has no gender, that part of you that you hide oh so well... I saw.

As I gather up my things, I can't help but smile at the simplicity of it and yet how hard it was to see... The doors open and I now find myself having an "Inner Body and Life" experience as I step off the G train.

I am at a point where I am confused
I am at a point where I am lost
Is this what being a teenager is?             Boluwatife

I am at a point where I crave to be seen
I am at a point where I crave to be loved
Is this what being a teenager is.            Boluwatife

I am at a point where my heart is broken
I have lost so many friends at this point
Is this what teenage hood is?               Loretta

I am at a point where I don't want to disappoint my parents
I am at a point where I don't want to disappoint my friends
Is this what being a teenager is?         Boluwatife

I love being a teenager, I hate being a teenager
I am confused, depressed and frustrated
Is this what being a teenager is?         Boluwatife

So many things crave my attention
I am afraid I will succumb to the pressure
Is this what teenage hood is?             Loretta

So much is expected of me
I can't seem to find a balance in my life
Is this what being a teenager is?          Boluwatife

Am I being weird, aren't I too fat
I think I'm too thin, a lot of people are staring😥
Is this what being a teenager is?

Everyone wants to force their opinions on me
No one cares what I think
Is this what teenage hood is?             Loretta

Nicky, the neighbor’s dog, drags a road **** home.
A beautiful pelt like those fox shoulder garments women wore in the
      forties.
But the head is crushed beyond recognition—maybe it’s a fox and that’s
      why Nicky, a canine, is conducting this wake on our front lawn.

Loretta, my wife’s mother, is in the hospital again. Forty years of Crohn’s
      disease has finally broken her.
It may take some time but she won’t bounce back from this episode.
None of us are sorry to see her die, not even Loretta. There will be a
      thunderous downpour during her last hour.

I like the story about the nuns hitting Peg in school–contumacy is a sin.
Emile and Loretta considered it an inappropriate punishment for their
      cherished adopted daughter.
So they pulled her out of Catholic for public school. They did their own
      thinking about discipline.

Early Spring, peepers all night, then the birds take over at dawn.
      Soothing—the mourning doves.
During this half of the year, May through October, we live in a green
      bower.
We turn the house inside out, move into the mountains.

In their annual order, flowers appear in the understory: coltsfoot, hepatica
      and trillium through to the end, late purple aster, spotted joe pye and
      pearly everlasting.
We let Nicky nurse her road ****, watch over it, roll around on it.
Don’t let go of the steering wheel while driving fast in the passing lane.

http://youtu.be/RGFytiWwsRo
(this is a link to a video that I created for this poem)
Ridgewood (Where We Wait)
We take the most delicious train
to the Queens-Brooklyn border to get here
Where everything is liminal, uncertain, undecided
Even the foundation, Arbitration Rock, at the house on Onderdonk
Was buried for centuries, dug up, and chucked on another imaginary line
The streets are on a grid, and the border on a diagonal
making a stair-stepping hypotenuse of the confused
A challenge to put your time to good use
even on the oz-like yellow brick road on Stockholm
You hear Poles on the street muttering “Marnowanie mojego
czasu tutaj” through the bachata dripping
from the apartments above the stores on Fresh Pond Road

Two of the best restaurants in the boroughs
Rosa’s pizza and Zum Stammtisch mark
the north and south borders of the hill where we wait  
During the seventy-seven riots, Ridgewood
seceded from her stepsister, broke from Boswijk and Breuckelen
-
There’s racism here like carbon monoxide smoke:
at the Ridgewood Y, a man sweats through his shirt
revealing swastikas pierced through the skin underneath
and the Romanian dentist down the street drilling
says “Cred ca am pierd timpul meu aici”
through the machinery scream and burning enamel
she won’t say this if you understand what she means

Walking past the 99 cent stores and the pharmacies,
remembering that there is good, fast, and cheap
But you can only have two of them at the same time,
Crazy Loretta, under her navy knit woolen hat
in her pink sweatsuit and winter coat, smokes
her shaking hand-rolled cigarettes below the train
trestle grinning with her jaw-jutting through
her inch thick specs.  She waggles her chicken bone fingers
saying, “Hiya honey” when you walk by.
If you are brave enough to stop and talk to her,
she’ll tell you that her nephew plays
for the Texas Rangers and her daughter
is a doctor and she’ll probably give you bedbugs
She’ll tell you, fascinated, like a child: “when you squish them - the blood comes out”
She’ll tell you the same thing tomorrow - Loretta forgets.  
In her mind, a phrase like green smoke from her youth
Ich glaube, ich bin meine Zeit hier

The playgrounds are packed with children
practicing how to swear, the girls huddled
reading Twilight like the Bible, and the boys
huddled reading the girls like the Bible
A woman yells to her son to come home a third time
and mutters “Creo que estoy perdiendo mi tiempo aquí”

Buried in Machpelah Cemetary less than a mile from my house,
is the place Houdini is still staging his greatest escape
He has a wide audience.  Sometimes I think there are more dead
residents of Ridgewood than living ones.  The cemeteries stretch
the borders of the appropriate spilling into Christ
the King high school’s front lawn.  Driving Cypress Hills street,
the Manhattan skyscrapers rise looking tomb-toothed parallaxed and
blurry through ephemeral sepulchres, stones, and cement angels pointing at the sky

On one of the stones it says simply: Videor perdo temporis hic
I think we are wasting our time here.

The final words deeply
Rooted well spirited from top
To the wishing well bottom
She writes-- on-- the-- top-line
  Real flower takes action
The Spring Mom affection
Dark- Shades She's the brightest

Star- Poppy make it snappy
Fire red Floppy disk
Movie flick favorite flower
Take a risk perfect pick
Your heart sunglasses got baked
With Moms baking flour
She couldn't see the sun
       Light years away
Words sound alike look at the what!

blue skies just pray we are rooted
     like a gifted flower
       That never dies
       Star Eyes** enter
The flowers frame mirror
   "Sunflower Face"
  *          *          *
Words sprout like

"Mr. and Misses"
The ceremony
Oh! Honey what's your point.....
Red so vibrant laughing Loretta
Crying operetta baby birth flower
 Rudolph running nose red
Homesick cough water spell
chamomile flower bed

Light up Holiday wed
  "Poinsettia" she's tough

Bloom-  make room  
Show Biz flower "Cafe Vienna"
Curtain call sprinkle me
Sunflower voice heal me
Daisies lion- roar- free
The fresh-cut dandelion
Sunflower hats bow

"Kentucky Derby" I reckon
Flower words I beg your pardon
Did I ever promise you the rose garden?
Last curtain call divine sunflower

mr moonlight
mr nowhere
maxwell edison
mr jones

dr robert
sgt pepper
mr kite, bb king
edgar allen poe

walter raleigh
mat busby
the hendersons
and maggie mae

mr mustard
captain marvel
rita lucy jojo
vera chuck and dave

mother nature
polethene pam
mr heath doris day
and buffalo bill

loretta martin
**** sadie
hey jude eggman
my michelle

rigby            and pilchard
or elenor      and semolina
took father  mckenzie
too see a dancing horse

henry       his name was
rocky       raccoon was there
prudence rode elephant
to the i me mine waltz
---
There gonna crucify me
the way things go
christ it aint easy
the next day dont know

you know the walrus was paul man
johns bird can sing
george was a genie
ringo wore a ring

but paul is dead now
george stole his soul
john is alive though
ringos in a hole

her royal highness the tax man
commit the perfect crime
she asked for more
with a belly full of wine

The Man in Black
The Silver Fox
Brad Paisley shows
That Country Rocks

Western's gone
But Country's not
Remember those
Who time's forgot

From Red Georgia Clay
To the Tennessee Hills
From Kentucky Blue Grass
I still get the chills
When the music goes through me
It's a feeling so strong
That can only be born
From an old country song



Loretta Lynn
Dottie West
Patsy Cline
They were the best

Old time country
Tennessee tunes
Mountain Bluegrass
My favorite tunes

From Red Georgia Clay
To the Tennessee Hills
From Kentucky Blue Grass
I still get the chills
When the music goes through me
It's a feeling so strong
That can only be born
From an old country song

The singers change
The tunes do not
They still sing the music
That others forgot

Williams and Jones
Acuff and Dickens
Old Buck and Roy
Still Pickin' and grinnin

From Red Georgia Clay
To the Tennessee Hills
From Kentucky Blue Grass
I still get the chills
When the music goes through me
It's a feeling so strong
That can only be born
From an old country song

have you ever felt shot into space
with nothing to hold to without any trace
of the one who was always around
who could laugh really hard and without any sound

and you fear that someday he will see
that you're mind is a strange one indeed, yet it's free!
to be up in the air and then down
hear that music that plays like a carnival sound

and it's something that's deep in your soul
from the day you first met he's been making you whole
cause he won't let you feel afraid,
fix you up when you're ****** and knows his first aid

Five of us kids to take care of
and all within seven short years
Leno then Beano then Bonzo then Labo then Damo
all laughter and tears.

It seems that we share the same feelings
about our ol' dad, and it's said
much better to share them while we are alive
than to wait until after we're dead.
  
and so I will write about Daddy
and because I am long with my word
my poems I will say can go on for a day,
and a night or so that's what I've heard.

To Tony, Loretta would cater
she cooked for the man who would date her
they married and so, and what do you know
three children would come along later.

Born October two four, nineteen hundred
and twenty eighth year of our Lord
at home, the first child of Tony and Rhetts
baby Vinny, was cut from the cord.

This sweet little Vincent Morrone
raised up in by my Nonna and Tony
quickly stuck in his ways, from the start of his days
and could size up the truth from a phony.

He grew up in old Jersey City
where he polished the width of his witty
had a sister named Claire who remembers him there
dear old dad, handsome lad, and she's pretty.

Their brother was born sometime later
our sweet uncle Jerry Morrone
Handsome and good and well liked in the hood
got those genes and that same funny bone.

 After Highschool, staff sergeant in Air Force
guiding take offs and landings, his post
Four years of St Pete, put him smart on the street  
and he left for the likes of our coast.

He was offered a job down in Jackson
elementary dear Watson, it's said
he would fall for another young teacher, a screecher
whose sassiness got to his head

He married our mother, that's Jacquie
they really were some kind of a pair
she knew he was smart, liked his looks and his heart
and respected the good that was there.

So five days a week Dad would teach
and he liked those nine months of the year
but he lived for the summers at Jenkinson's beach
where that salt water pool was so clear.

in a torn old white sweatshirt and plaid shorts
he was sharing a Bud at the fence
loved his mower and pool, and that backyard was cool
much more like a park, you would sense.

we know how he hated the gurlic
and that onions would just make him hurlick
my mother would never use any such thing
he could drive her to sing like Steve Urlick.
( did I do that?)

No qualms about eating cold hotdogs
and cheddar in chunks from red foil
liked his eggplant cut thin, and his gravy could win
a blue ribbon, the secret? No spoil!!

Could deliver a joke like Bob Newhart
or a pun just for fun was sublime
he was always aware, but for crowds, didn't care
unless it was harmony time.

Best one on one at a party
but the life when it came to his cracks
made small talk okay, but preferred just to stay
to the side and be watching the acts.

Old Spice and that weekender stubble
did his thing and his speaking was soft
he was never a man to cause trouble
but he'd tell you when something was off.

McDonalds and corn on the cob
smoked a pipe, did not curse, and was never a slob
though I know he was not always neat
he was clean, never smelled, never spit in the street.

taught us never to take wooden nickels
and he loved a fresh jar of those kosher dill pickels
drove a large Orange bug in the day
with a driver side  SPEBSQSA

he wiped off my face with his thumb
that he'd lick first to clear away jelly and crumb
and he'd always be there in a pinch
if I needed his help, he was there, not a Grinch!

He was always the Good Humored one
bought us Ice cream and took us to places for fun
an occasional "word to the wise
you've cashed in your chips
and don't hand me your lies."

and the one who would walk me not once
but twice down the aisle of heartache and gloom
as a wife I have failed, a dunce
yet dismissing that elephant out of the room.

and tried not to laugh at my lot
at my barrenness, troubles and all of that snot
took me back to this place for some peace
never charged me a dime, not a landlord with lease
but a man with the mercy he knows
he understood sometimes that's just how life goes

and suddenly everything's changed
I am fifty two times around, feeling deranged
and it's not because I need a crutch
feeling lost in this world  
which I've lived in and such

but that I have been shot into space
having lost what I loved, it's my dad's loving face
and I'm here in the house that he bought
it's the one where we loved and the one where
we fought

and I cried here at length at the table
feeling shot into space, as if I am unable
to cope with the loss of my dad,
with the loss of his smile  and the voice that he had

and the place that he had in my life
in my heart....in my head...in my mind...So I climbed
to room where my dear daddy slept
and I laid on that bed and I wept and I wept
feeling shot into space I recalled that man's face
and I reached for the  tissues he kept in that place

and in one second flat, as I blew
from the nose of his likeness,  I knew and it's true
I was beamed back from space
into someone's embrace
and believe me, as if my dad knew...

For my father was known to be punny
always quick with the wit, such a honey
he would tell me to write, for it was his delight
that his children were his kind of funny.

I am never to think I am odder
for I am what I am, my dad's daughter
I hear distant strumming and now my dad humming
the theme song from Welcome Back Kotter.

http://youtu.be/5VlGyMG0ksg

i never understood why poetry books were and are so expensive, there's Darwin lounging smoking a cigarette listening to some Victorian erich segal, e. l. james, diana gabaldon or a loretta chase - while imaging, well, you know, why the the Bayeux tapestry represents the Normans invasion with humanoids, hence the pressure on artists to follow-up with self-portraits, otherwise it ended up with two monkeys ******* in his head... but such writers are equivalent to manual labourers, they don't care if their books aren't finished, they are equivalent of bricklayers, ploughing the fields of blanks unearthing potatoes and more potatoes (words)... some Chinese poet-drunkard trying to escape Tibetan meditation writes a haiku... and that's about it, he says laughing at the moon: 'this is bothersome! for one thing our ancestors chose a ****** difficult phonetic encoding, maybe this was xenophobia in disguise, but the Ming dynasty project is nothing compared to how we write she and shin, no amount of labour will be as effective as our pictographs, some say this is a defence against invaders, and i believe them, they got as far as ***** trading with us, now we have cheap steel and Russian allies... forget the great wall, the real defence against invaders and accusations of xenophobia is in the encoding, which also means we can **** the mathematical encoding like an elephant ******* a chicken, with its trunk, blowing air into it so the chicken ends up flying, along with the ostrich'.

when i write crude i know i'm exhausting a poem,
or at least the introduction, to a poem,
but such are crude comparisons, they tell you when
to stop the flux of the unintended direction -
but i agree with him, western powers abuse
the haiku mechanism, back in the east the haiku
appears from blank, partly due to that Tibetan
baldy blubber in later age in India -
in the west we have the crown of myrrh, and due
to the overload of sensual stimulation with that,
and the lashing prior to the crucifixion,
an over-exited state of sensuality, meaning more
cognitive outpourings, hence not one haiku
in a year about some freckled salmon jumping
over the moon with a momentary diamond of snow
on its tail... but a whole list of them...
without any verbal tradition to remember either...
take the Tibetan lounging and the Hebrai hanging,
why did we ever take the latter up?
well, question answered, the west is quietly shunning
the church's influence, all you need is a Buddha
head in your living room and it's primo aprilis -
well, not it's Prima Aprilis, *Prima dies Aprilis,
it's a jokers day in Poland, i experienced one myself,
you run around the town drenching each other in water,
or as i call it, baptising each other, for jokes,
buckets of water... in the west it's just a toys 'r' us
advert owning a water-gun, but you hardly see
children in western society, esp. in England,
they're exposed to overt-sexuality prematurely,
they're stiff on the monkey bars, stiff on bicycles,
stiff playing football, stiff climbing trees (if ever),
stiff or coffin like only ready to play the one game they
know best: bullying and make-up, and short-skirts,
and karaoke dreaming all the leaves are brown,
and the sky is grey, i've been for a walk, on a winter's day,
i'd be safe from walking, if i wasn't in L.A., california
dreaming, on such a winter's day, it's only
outdoors if there's a prize involved, not the smell of grass
or cow ****... strap me up Scott'e, i'm about to venture
into the grand world wearing a ******... anyway,
you never write more than one haiku a year...
but before i do a Robert Frost as cited by Jack Spicer
"any ****** fool can get into a poem but it takes
a poet to get out of one", citation? helen: a revision
part of the San Francisco Renaissance mini movement.
but today's panorama show, about the exit vote,
Hilarious **** being investigated by the F.B.I., Trump
turned into a T-Rex in a children's book - tiny hands,
big quiff - and in a global community where slavery
is frowned at, piracy is not really, the vain hopes
of former glories, listening to old farts reminiscent of
the empire esp. in the north is like listening to a fake ******,
my grandparents could say the same ******* in Poland,
the loss of the steel industry, much due to the extinction
of communism in Europe, feminism and the soft-industry
jobs of primarily advertisements, the manly jobs?
they're all Chinese... why blame eastern europeans?
you like your ******* chicken chow mein you little *****?
well i'm certainly liking my korma chicken curry, eat it!
an economy that prizes only profit and not continuity
exporting everything to King Kong Mao will look for
scapegoats anywhere, i'm surprised it's not the Jews this
time, and it's so funny, i mean, born & prop'ah bred
Anglo, imported from Pakistan, oh yeah, "prop'ah",
now they're the best mates, once master and the slave,
now two masters, hand in hand, should be a joke
poster like the socialist fraternal kiss (the capitalist
fraternal kiss is - you guessed it! mouth kissing an ****!),
so you have to really trim the curtains of the ethnic
dress of King Abdullah bin Abdulaziz Al Saud to get
a selfie with Tony Blair and Bush Jr. getting stuck in -
at a time when no Londoner feels safe outside
of England, esp. in the north, perhaps in Scoot-land
(three years up there, i built up an affinity with
them against Jacky Uno and the flag,
right now i'm burning it in my head, ah, for scrap jokes);
and then they box in the idea that whoever earns money
can't do what the hell he wants with it... listen...
after not being given the Marshall Plan option, and instead
given an ideal like communism i think it's best some
of the money heads east to fund the post-Gorbachev plan
(why was Sweden included in the plan? Sweden
was neutral! they were the myth-machine generators
of ******'s late discovery of the ability to bleach your hair!),
and why would i spend my money in Southend anyway?
or Blackpool on candyfloss? community?
you want a community? how the hell is community going
to work... this ain't a village, this a globalised world...
plus, why associate yourself with vermin?
and all this is going around while the rats from
respective parties jump the boat and leave the public
to blame themselves... but that's how it is, in this
schizoid metaphor, bilingualism is extreme as much as
mono-lingual psychology, but less rooted and historic
and continuity biased... happy those who know only
one tongue or three and more... with bilingualism
you become a psychological mongrel, while others are mongrels
of the flesh, soul-mongrel breeding is harsh,
you're neither here, nor there, and your idea of heaven
becomes something like: wake me up again speaking
Norwegian, because at least i can identify in that region
something that isn't here or there - but being first
generation and remembering to speak the mother,
i wasn't going to do the solo ethnic cleansing and speak
only one tongue... if i did... you think i'd be speaking with
my father and his broken English? ha! *nie!

Listening to George Jones.
Or Mel Tillis.
Or Maybe Mickey Gilley.
I'm just a country boy listening to a country song.

Good loving.
Or a good feeling.
I'm just a country boy listening to a country song.

Listening to the original Statler Brothers.
Singing Flowers on the Wall.
Or Marty Robbins singing My Woman, My Woman, My Wife.

There's nothing greater then a good country song.

Whether it's by Johnny Cash.
Or Johnny Paycheck.
Or Roger Miller singing Dang It.

There's just nothing like a good country song.

Sure they reminds you of the blues.
Or the blues reminds you of country.
Either way the message is cleared.
There's nothing like a good country love song.

Throw in some Tammy Wynette.
Or Loretta Lynn.
Or play you some Dolly.
And you'll see the story happening.

Cause there's nothing like a good country song.

Lady Gaga's poker face is off,

While I hear Dr.Frankenstein maniacal cough,

Marlyn's eyes pacing and keeping with her anxieties,

with Bob Dylan telling her about his newest sobrieties,

Bunch a ******* cards says Loretta Lynn,

I'm all in says he with the masochistic words written on his chin,

Gaga throws her dark shades on her slave Popculture,

he bows and tries to back out the door,

When Elvis and Kerry Grant grab his collar,

and tell him to earn his dollar.

My hand is nothing but missed connections,

and different lives I might have lived.

I fold.

Just sittin' back.
And listenin' to good country music.
Not this rock country they singin' today.

I'm just relaxin' listenin' to George Jones.
Singin' about the race is on to get some white lightin'.

And by my side.
Is my one true woman.

We're just sittin' back.
And listenin' to good country music.

Listenin' to Mel Tillis singin' about that Coke Cola Cowboy.
He must be a true live fella.

And soon.
We're listenin' to Loretta Lynn singin' about she's not tough to take her man.
Which is followed by Tammy Wynette proclaim to Stand by her man.
And me and my love just sittin' back.
Listenin' to good country music.

Nothin' like the country rock they sing today.
Where many artists grew up on rock and roll in their youth?

Just sittin' here listenin' to Waylon Jenning.
Or maybe Merle Haggard.
Or that Bakerfield's fella singin' about just act naturally.

Which I feel he's talkin' about me.

While I'm just sittin' back listenin' to some Willie Nelson.
Another one of those outlaw fella.

This is music to my soul.
That I could hear all day long.

I'm not into Tim Mcgraw.
And might never be.
I'm not even into Faith Evan although country is a vital part of me.

Some might say, I'm missing a lot.
It's just not country music to me.
But acts trying to be rock stars.

Now, name the Statler Brothers or Mel Tillis.
Or Loretta Lynn to Reba then you talking directly to me.
I was country long before the change.

Can name legendary acts that others stars can't name.

Marty Robbons, Roger Miller and others isn't hardly mention today.
Unless someone's doing a tribute act to them.
But these was artist that contribute to the country music today.

They might have worn glitter suits and played guitars.
And yes, some probably was too conceited to be a true star.
I was country long before the change.

I remember Dolly singing upon the Porter Wagoner show.
Yes, long before she had her own personal show.
I even remember those artists Waylon, Willie and others being called outlaws.

And I guess this is when this field beginned to change.
Still I was country long before the change.

But in truth nothing ever remain the same.
We all must accept growth.
Simply for the facts it brings a growth to us.
Even if I'm listening to Carrie Underwood and that Jason dude.

We’re walking through magnetic fields.

We approach the stop sign yield.

How lovely someone’s name
“WC Field”

Bondman what a con man.

Going West “May I May West” I’m a fan.

What names do we like the best?

Rosetta, she keeps smiles and

gets wet-a his eyes tell her

he’s in the sunset to get her

Someone to bond “At-Last”

The different era desperate housewife.

One is Rosetta meets one of her friends

Violet-ta what drama Ra Rata

Frank Sinatra says well that’s life.

Holding two names eyes of a magnet

in one hand.Powerful love garnet

God’s name expressed love command

So sacred in a new land.

Rosetta please get your friend.

He addresses her as a poinsettia.

Garlands Of Judy extend.

The poinsettia his finger points

until Emma visits hum?
What is she up too?

She is quite the dilemma give her the evil eye.

The violin sounds Heather lilac meets Violet-ta.

Beatles play with “Sweet Loretta.”

Sipping Camilla Cafe I want to hold your hand.

She marries her best man best-spilled the margarita.

How’s Rebecca organically has grown to Omega?

Movie star suspenseful Marx Garbo so Groucho.

What a pain Mr. Panetta eating his
words Mucho gracias

Shark -fin soup Chinese delicacy.

He bite’s the bruschetta his ballot Presidency.

How he expressed A secret Emma the Emmy

Got caught in a big Dilemma with Remy

The wrong ***** of a vendetta

Smell the coffee wake up you betta or else?

That computer mouse true or false.

Billy Joel stranger met his counterfeiter

Going Uptown girl sings on his piano expressed A

comment to kiss her.
But you’re a stranger?

Rumors with leaks of plumber’s Raven birds.

Don’t flood my words.

A perfect rose how he gave it to Rosetta.

We need more names what about Tatiana.

I saw her dancing at the “Copacabana Wella.”

A-Men that’s how I met Rosetta.

Beware of big houses.
There can be a lot of emptiness in there.
What good are stairways
if all they do is take you
from one emptiness to another?
Hallways that lead you to just more loneliness.
Carpets are the softest things
that ever touched you.
Choose a bathroom;  
there are a lot to choose from.
At least their hard tile floors
make no pretenses.
I preferred the attic
on the third floor.
It was filled with things
that used to have a life.
Live children used to play
with the toys.
I remember one rainy afternoon.
My mother was in the sewing room
oblivious to my presence in the hallway,
so I slowly walked down the stairs,
put on my yellow raincoat,
walked out into the rain
and walked six or seven blocks
to the street where Loretta lived,
the girl I think I loved
but didn't know in third grade.
I stood on the side of the street
opposite her house. I stood there
in the pouring rain for quite a long time;  
nobody, I think, saw me,
but nonetheless, I felt I was with a friend.
Finally, I turned around and walked
back to my house.
Mother never missed me.
I took off my yellow raincoat,
walked up the stairway
past my oblivious mother,
found an empty room,
lay down on an empty bed and cried,
just like the rain.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

Drea De Mattea
Kathy Matea
See they're both in entertainment
Michael Jordan
Morton Downey
Get it both of their opinions are respected
Seymour Gross the decadent businessman with his two sons -
Greg and Seymour, Jr. Get it - Seymour
Someone put of Mad Magazine's Greg
and Ex-Chicago Cubs player- (He got famous at it.)
decadence, I mean, and Junior Gross -
We're all getting really tired of real decadent types
like his father and Greg. - I'm just being facetious about
the bloodline connection. What, are they both adopted and just
copies of it?
And Seymour's morals are especially refreshing
compared to his faults.
Loretta Lynn
Brenda Lee
Two gifted singers
Eisenhower and MacArthur
2 great West painters
etc., etc.,
You get the picture.

In my back yard are growing things
and tubs of this and that.
I lean out of the window
and watch the sun go down
on my back yard.
The bats come flying from the pines.
In circles, round and round,
they skirt the trees
and make their squeaky sound,
the bats in my back yard.
Just listen to that last, sweet chirp
of blackbirds fluting song,
as sleepy birds now roost
in my backyard.
I listen for a long, long time
And watch the sun go down,
peaceful and tranquil
in my back yard.

Loretta Proctor

Give me your hand and let me lead you to the floor.
We're love dancing to whatever song is on?

Maybe some Sinatra, Martin or Tony Bennett.
Maybe Paul Simon or James Taylor and Carly Simon.

It doesn't matter, when we're love dancing.

Oh, you're shocked.
Maybe amazed to see the one you love acting this way.
But sometimes, things should be a surprised changed.

Play me some Paul, John, George and even Ringo.
It doesn't matter, as long as you dance along.

Let me slowly spin you aware.
As Mel Tillis or Conway Twitty belts out a song.
Throw in some Loretta Lynn or Lynn Anderson.

Whatever your choice for pure pleasure?

Maybe Marvin Gaye or Al Green or Barry White.
Just realize with them singing things might affect the night.

Play some Howlin' Wolf or Muddy Waters or some Rolling Stones.
Just realize in truth, we need know music to groove ourselves on.
Whisper to me.
And I whisper to you.

We be making more music when the morning comes.

i want someone
to look at me
that way
johnny
looks at loretta
in moonstruck.
the way
johnny
looks at baby
in ***** dancing.

I have a really intense fantasy life
And a really boring actual life
DC, Istanbul, Kyoto
Women helping my wife

Exoplanets spin
Astronomers find water
Yearning still within
Prayers for Susan Meek's daughters

Our politics so childish
Empires always Fall
Mt. Rainier near Seattle
River Eden, Wetheral

I'd like to live in libraries
She reads me at Seattle U.
Silences. Monasteries.
Trappist1. Not-two.

      Horton Hears A Who

                 Do you?

I’m seven. My little sister by my side,
at all times. Partners in crime.

Summer afternoons blend into cool nights.
Carefree and light.

Mom calling us to come Home.
Oh, but how we wished to still roam.

The street was ours.
We’d beg our father to let us look at the stars.

I’m twelve. Never did we think,
that in the blink

of an eye
we’d have to say goodbye,

to the Home we once knew,
and there’s nothing we can do.

Because Loretta is sick.
But with you as my sidekick,

I’ll always be at Home.