Archive for May, 2015


In my insanely contemporary musical Disc jockey mind, this “tune wedgie” appears most mornings while I try to make breakfast, wake-up and convince myself that I have a purpose in life to move on towards. Yes, it is lonely like that unless I am strengthened via prayer.

The lyric, “Its me that’s missing your love, and I….” repeats most often.

You are listening to vintage Al Green from 1973 “Call Me” album, with a song of unrequited yet reciprocal love that endures because every day the dawn will happen with a renewed chance for healing romance. I always appreciated how during his vamp-to-fade, he listed his previous, at that time, hit song’s names, lol.

This light-listen and “B-side” selection garnered major market airplay and herein is dedicated sometimes to the Ukrainian lady I thought I’d be married to by now, Inna-Nina. I blame myself for not being able to raise enough money to import her to the USA ahead of the Russian intervention and her mother’s cancer diagnosis in the spring of 2014.
This is likely the sad climax conclusion for “Cafe` Skype” because something is amiss. I will put it point-blank: If you are my girlfriend or fiancee` and my elderly mother or father becomes ill, I will not push you away or go to a mental clinic for a “breakdown”. To the contrary, I would need you more to lean upon through troubled times – even if five thousand kilometers away via a five year relationship as difficult as that may be – or if it honestly will not work anymore and I have a person in the same area of the opposite sex (maybe a past schoolmate) who fulfills that role, I would tell you. Or maybe that’s just me.
Here is when needs begin to challenge that I am a loyal, faithful man.
Murphy’s law seems to stalk my female companionship quest…

Tell me what should I do in your comments, please

Attic-A City

apr2010_1692

Spiders might be about
My extremities may have gout
Creepy crawlers may be neigh
They are invisible to my eye
As I chill in the darkness to on line music
Upstairs as my ninety year old mum sleeps below
I have at it in the attic of my youth.
Saturday night on holiday weekend
I sip silent brandy and pen
Above the too quiet din
Smirking at the mental plan I have to win.
Wooden rafters all around
Insulation non asbestos abounds
Ventilation wired as to prevent squirrel intrusion
My hideaway is a real illusion.
Thanks to a private entrance
Am free to go and come,
Not to disturbing the sleeping Mum.
Conditioner necessary to move the rare air
Ancient splinter wood under foot
Formerly a linen closet was the only access up to up here.
Now my temporary domain is clear!
Converted to a non-allergic place
Observant of the street I was raised upon
Confined in miserably crowded disgraceful times!
Dare to compare as current third world-like disgrace.

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