Saturday, June 27, 2009


Tucked under my arm
a volume, a new edition
penned by a favored author.

A Summer Saturday
sanguine and serene,
sunshine abounding.

My lawn chair, half reclined,
cushioned and shaded,
beckoning an occupant.

Icy beverage,
splendid sweetness,
sweating condensation.

I sit supine
legs elevated
comfort seeking.

Ray-Ban's lowered,
sipping, slurping,
book poised and ready.

Summer sounds surround,
a lark's languid song,
leaves restlessly rustling.

Children's shouts
fade into the distance,
a bark of a lazy dog.

A motorcycle whines,
auto engines revving
to decibels most distracting.

Mowers and weed whackers,
a domestic dispute from
the neighboring yard.

And me, sitting in my silence
turning page after page
engrossed in published excellence.

Three chapters later
I finally notice the church bells
tolling the hour, God's doorbell.

Six O'clock and
a summer Sunday looms,
where more brilliance awaits.

I down my tea,
tucking my tome under the crook
of a bent elbow. One hell of a read!

Friday, June 26, 2009


I am flummoxed after
reading the "Police Blotter"
in the local info-rag about a guy
who lost his trunks diving at the public pool.
It reminded me of this recurring dream I have.
I'm the new guy standing on the nude beach,
fully clothed and with an accordion
strapped to my chest. The resident nudists
ask me to quit the damn polkas
and play something that really jumps.
I swallow my gum and my palms sweat profusely,
as I try to avoid staring longingly
at the blond with the beach ball.
Always an unsuccessful attempt.
Has that ever happened to you?
Uh, neither!
How embarrassing!

Thursday, June 25, 2009


An over-sized empty lot
across the street from
the old "homestead" cleared,
an over-growth of weeds and stones
raked and manicured by the neighborhood
groundskeepers, my brother, cousin and me,
A home plate fashioned out of
a scrap piece of plywood by my father.
We scavenged around and found
an actual base, worn, stuffed,
strapped and buckled, it was the Holy Grail;
it gave us gravitas.
It made this pathetic sandlot
Yankee Stadium, Ebbetts Fields
and Offermann* Stadium
all in one. A tattered old shoe
half buried in the outfield was
given prominence, resurrected as
third base. A boulder embedded
perfectly in line with home plate
became second, and it had come
to render many an errant slide
into a blood letting; dust yourself off
and limp to third. You stayed
in the game. Anything into
my grandfather's garden was foul
on the right, Roland Avenue was
foul on the left. Mr. Kwitek watched
every game, as much for the
baseball played, as the fact
that the back of his house was
home run territory. "That ball
is going, going, GOOD BYE MR. SPAULDING!
Hello Mr. Kwitek, we'll fix that window later."
We lived, breathed, and ate baseball.
From early morning, until
we called the game on account
of mosquito infestation,
it was baseball. If we build it,
they will come and play.
"He can't hit, he can't hit"
"Pitcher's got a rubber arm!"
Hello Mr. Kwitek!

* Offermann Stadium was the Buffalo Equivalent, home of the Bisons and the great "Luscious" Luke Easter.

Monday, June 22, 2009


Abbott: Well Costello, I'm going to New York with you. You know Bucky Harris, the Yankee's manager, gave me a job as coach for as long as you're on the team.
Costello: Look Abbott, if you're the coach, you must know all the players.
Abbott: I certainly do.
Costello: Well you know I've never met the guys. So you'll have to tell me their names, and then I'll know who's playing on the team.
Abbott: Oh, I'll tell you their names, but you know it seems to me they give these ball players now-a-days very peculiar names.
Costello: You mean funny names?
Abbott: Strange names, pet Dizzy Dean...
Costello: His brother Daffy.
Abbott: Daffy Dean...
Costello: And their French cousin.
Abbott: French?
Costello: Goofè.
Abbott: Goofè Dean. Well, let's see, we have on the bags, Who's on first, What's on second, I Don't Know is on third...
Costello: That's what I want to find out.
Abbott: I say Who's on first, What's on second, I Don't Know's on third.
Costello: Are you the manager?
Abbott: Yes.
Costello: You gonna be the coach too?
Abbott: Yes.
Costello: And you don't know the fellows' names?
Abbott: Well I should.
Costello: Well then who's on first?
Abbott: Yes.
Costello: I mean the fellow's name.
Abbott: Who.
Costello: The guy on first.
Abbott: Who.
Costello: The first baseman.
Abbott: Who.
Costello: The guy playing...
Abbott: Who is on first!
Costello: I'm asking YOU who's on first.
Abbott: That's the man's name.
Costello: That's who's name?
Abbott: Yes.
Costello: Well go ahead and tell me.
Abbott: That's it.
Costello: That's who?
Abbott: Yes.
Costello: Look, you gotta first baseman?
Abbott: Certainly.
Costello: Who's playing first?
Abbott: That's right.
Costello: When you pay off the first baseman every month, who gets the money?
Abbott: Every dollar of it.
Costello: All I'm trying to find out is the fellow's name on first base.
Abbott: Who.
Costello: The guy that gets...
Abbott: That's it.
Costello: Who gets the money...
Abbott: He does, every dollar. Sometimes his wife comes down and collects it.
Costello: Whose wife?
Abbott: Yes.
Abbott: What's wrong with that?
Costello: Look, all I wanna know is when you sign up the first baseman, how does he ign his name?
Abbott: Who.
Costello: The guy.
Abbott: Who.
Costello: How does he sign...
Abbott: That's how he signs it.
Costello: Who?
Abbott: Yes.
Costello: All I'm trying to find out is what's the guy's name on first base.
Abbott: No. What is on second base.
Costello: I'm not asking you who's on second.
Abbott: Who's on first.
Costello: One base at a time!
Abbott: Well, don't change the players around.
Costello: I'm not changing nobody!
Abbott: Take it easy, buddy.
Costello: I'm only asking you, who's the guy on first base?
Abbott: That's right.
Costello: Ok.
Abbott: All right.
Costello: What's the guy's name on first base?
Abbott: No. What is on second.
Costello: I'm not asking you who's on second.
Abbott: Who's on first.
Costello: I don't know.
Abbott: He's on third, we're not talking about him.
Costello: Now how did I get on third base?
Abbott: Why you mentioned his name.
Costello: If I mentioned the third baseman's name, who did I say is playing third?
Abbott: No. Who's playing first.
Costello: What's on first?
Abbott: What's on second.
Costello: I don't know.
Abbott: He's on third.
Costello: There I go, back on third again!
Costello: Would you just stay on third base and don't go off it.
Abbott: All right, what do you want to know?
Costello: Now who's playing third base?
Abbott: Why do you insist on putting Who on third base?
Costello: What am I putting on third.
Abbott: No. What is on second.
Costello: You don't want who on second?
Abbott: Who is on first.
Costello: I don't know.
Abbott & Costello Together:Third base!
Costello: Look, you gotta outfield?
Abbott: Sure.
Costello: The left fielder's name?
Abbott: Why.
Costello: I just thought I'd ask you.
Abbott: Well, I just thought I'd tell ya.
Costello: Then tell me who's playing left field.
Abbott: Who's playing first.
Costello: I'm not... stay out of the infield! I want to know what's the guy's name in left field?
Abbott: No, What is on second.
Costello: I'm not asking you who's on second.
Abbott: Who's on first!
Costello: I don't know.
Abbott & Costello Together: Third base!
Costello: The left fielder's name?
Abbott: Why.
Costello: Because!
Abbott: Oh, he's centerfield.
Costello: Look, You gotta pitcher on this team?
Abbott: Sure.
Costello: The pitcher's name?
Abbott: Tomorrow.
Costello: You don't want to tell me today?
Abbott: I'm telling you now.
Costello: Then go ahead.
Abbott: Tomorrow!
Costello: What time?
Abbott: What time what?
Costello: What time tomorrow are you gonna tell me who's pitching?
Abbott: Now listen. Who is not pitching.
Costello: I'll break your arm, you say who's on first! I want to know what's the pither's name?
Abbott: What's on second.
Costello: I don't know.
Abbott & Costello Together: Third base!
Costello: Gotta a catcher?
Abbott: Certainly.
Costello: The catcher's name?
Abbott: Today.
Costello: Today, and tomorrow's pitching.
Abbott: Now you've got it.
Costello: All we got is a couple of days on the team.
Costello: You know I'm a catcher too.
Abbott: So they tell me.
Costello: I get behind the plate to do some fancy catching, Tomorrow's pitching on my team and a heavy hitter gets up. Now the heavy hitter bunts the ball. When he bunts the ball, me, being a good catcher, I'm gonna throw the guy out at first base. So I pick up the ball and throw it to who?
Abbott: Now that's the first thing you've said right.
Costello: I don't even know what I'm talking about!
Abbott: That's all you have to do.
Costello: Is to throw the ball to first base.
Abbott: Yes!
Costello: Now who's got it?
Abbott: Naturally.
Costello: Look, if I throw the ball to first base, somebody's gotta get it. Now who has it?
Abbott: Naturally.
Costello: Who?
Abbott: Naturally.
Costello: Naturally?
Abbott: Naturally.
Costello: So I pick up the ball and I throw it to Naturally.
Abbott: No you don't, you throw the ball to Who.
Costello: Naturally.
Abbott: That's different.
Costello: That's what I said.
Abbott: You're not saying it...
Costello: I throw the ball to Naturally.
Abbott: You throw it to Who.
Costello: Naturally.
Abbott: That's it.
Costello: That's what I said!
Abbott: You ask me.
Costello: I throw the ball to who?
Abbott: Naturally.
Costello: Now you ask me.
Abbott: You throw the ball to Who?
Costello: Naturally.
Abbott: That's it.
Costello: Same as you! Same as YOU! I throw the ball to who. Whoever it is drops the ball and the guy runs to second. Who picks up the ball and throws it to What. What throws it to I Don't Know. I Don't Know throws it back to Tomorrow, Triple play. Another guy gets up and hits a long fly ball to Because. Why? I don't know! He's on third and I don't give a darn!
Abbott: What?
Costello: I said I don't give a darn!
Abbott: Oh, that's our shortstop.

****Who's on First by Abbott and Costello

Thursday, June 18, 2009


Many a tale, tall or small,
walk the finest line,
whether blasts about the past
or romances sublime.

The verity of epic lore
suspicious in its nature,
would dazzle all who took the fall
to buy this nomenclature.

Prehistoric cavemen from
one million BC, (no less),
would run like hell, the tales tell,
from Tyrannosaurus Rex.

With arms outstretched the fishermen
from back in early days,
told their stories of the glory
of the one that got away.

And macho guys with made up eyes,
unbuttoned down to there,
would sadly brag ‘bout Babes they’ve bagged
to unbelieving stares.

The fairer sex is not immune
from giving long descriptions
about a guy’s sense of impotence
and little blue prescriptions.

We learn in childhood naiveté,
that enhancing things we’d say,
made the games seem so much better
and much more fun to play.

On summer nights we took delight
in counting endless stars,
we’d guesstimate a million,
but there were so much more by far.

We’d contemplate with broken hearts,
amidst broke-hearted pleas,
and we’re consoled when we are told,
“There’s a million fish in the sea”.

I’m not quite near completion,
of this drawn out explanation,
but if I told you once, I told you nine hundred ninety nine thousand, nine hundred ninety nine times,
I hate exaggeration!


put through the
Fibonacci math
grows by leaps and bounds quite nicely.
one million, three hundred forty six thousand, something.
It's sort of a "banker's dozen",
only much better.
That's a whole
lot of

Wednesday, June 17, 2009


A three year self-imposed
exile was all that stood between
pigheaded me and my stubborn father.
The circumstances of my departure were childish
and at forty seven years of age, most regrettable.

Here's my dad, my namesake,
languishing in a personal hell
that was part an act of God and
part of his own doing. A self-destructive
myopia through the smokiness of a brown bottle.

His alcoholism
went further than the
debilitating headache he
would suffer through the next
morning, as if nothing ever happened.

It eroded his self-esteem,
it presented his liver with a fine
cirrhosis, the ravages of addiction that
tormented my mother and put we six in the line
of fire, force to choose between the two, always,

defaulting to the defense
and aid of a mother who was in a
steady retreat to oblivion herself,
due to HBP, far too many cigarettes, and
just enough of my father's bullshit to keep her.

The toll on the family
is always the after thought,
never the rule. For entering the
gates of hell, he had left the portal
open for a sister, a brother and myself

to enter unencumbered.
Sobriety came as a blessing
to me, a matter of course for my
brother, and an ongoing battle for my
sweet sister. It was just survival for Dad.

For his cirrhosis
presented the opportunity
for a ravenous cancer to devour
all he had left. It foisted upon him
a sobering clarity to the damages done.

Not just to himself,
but to the children who
remained to care for him in
his last dying months. It was
what prompted my return. Looking

into the eyes of my father,
my mentor and hero, my teacher
and my friend, all past indiscretions
found their forgiveness, not in a tearful
plea or a heartfelt soul search, it came in

just that look.
no words spoken, no
apologies given/accepted,
an understanding, nothing more.
A inward smile and a quite nod. We,

my father and I,
made our peace; buried
our personal hatchets and
gave his tired and consuming
guilt nowhere else to hang its hat.

That prescient moment
between stubborn father and
pigheaded son made us feel like a
million dollars. But for his short time
remaining, it was worth ten times as much.

Tuesday, June 16, 2009


The freshest face
sporting a smile,
revealing the sense of style.
Unknown, unflaunted.
Undaunted to take the world
by storm, a heart so warm
it is self-inspiring.
Never tiring of the point of view
that fills each sentence
and paragraph of this Paige.
Newly discovered, yet unexplored,
sweet as melin could be,
with a respectfully kind word
shrouded in the exuberance of youth;
Exposed in the wantonness of womanhood.
Learning, yearning for the muse
to strike her, releasing
the passion and emotion
that lies dormant within,
where do I begin on this Paige?
From her awkward civility,
to her recent ability to verbalize
the beauty she espouses; that is Paige!
She, the heroine in the book of life
in which each page is filled with Paige.
This Paige is never blank,
always searching for the right words
to express all that lies sheltered deeply
in her heart and soul. In control,
fragile and breakable,
never mistakable that she
will dazzle the world.
This woman/girl
stepping out of her shackles
and into the sunshine
of another new day.
This poetic Paige, fully grown…
…with a style all her own!

“A STYLE ALL HER OWN” – Ladies Home Journal


mentally snowbound in this solitary room of one,
lost inside and searching, longing
for relief from the throes of an internal winter
that has been foisted upon this heart.

the cold goes through me, chilling me,
the ice that has formed on my soul
hampers my emotions, killing me
with a slow and painful reality.

for years these chill blains
have rattled my bones and left me
wanting for a chance to defrost myself
to find a heart still beating.

this frostbite is relentless.
tearing me apart with every moment passing.
in its apathy
I find myself cold and alone.

cold and alone, until thoughts of an ember bright
illuminates my being and cautiously finds the soul
left slumbering, shivering,
yearning for the spark to burn uncontrolled.

this warmth penetrates me,
gradually soothing me and finding
a willing and wanting heart that can feel again,
heating me with a fire that smolders.

I sense your flame in my familiar hearth,
opened wide with arms embracing,
and glowing incredibly, tendrils of flame
the color of your warmth; the color of you.

this fire consumes my heart
completely and deliberately, seeking the connection
to be shared for a lifetime,
and kept lit by the oxygen of a single breath. Ours.

the ice is releasing me from its grip
as the fire that is you, replaces its hold
with a warm and loving caress,
and easing my mind to think loving thoughts only.

this yearning searches for a fire that
will kindle a fire of my own
and spark another wave of brilliance.
looks like I’m just warming up.


Tuesday, June 9, 2009

MUSIC AND LYRICS by Walt Wojtanik

My music site will be highlighting some of my compositions.
The site address is:

First song featured is:

(Give Me) A Dream For My Heart To Cling To

Monday, June 8, 2009


"Can I get a new phone my old one is lame,
it still makes calls but it isn't the same."
"It's like, so last year, I NEED something new,
I wouldn't be caught dead with this thing, would you?"
"Lay off of my music, I like it that loud,
and dressing this way, I stand out in a crowd!"
"How can you say that I show no respect,
and my room is just "lived in", that isn't neglect."
"Can I have a few dollars to go to the Mall?"
"If I had a better phone, I'd remember to call!"
"You're just so old-fashioned, Mom would say yes,
she must love me more, that'd be my guess"
So finally I speak, "Just when did 'We'll see"
turn into a promise between you and me?"
"I'm trying my hardest to keep things on track,
so give me a break and cut me some slack."
"And why must you always turn things around,
I'm just making sure that your feet keep their ground."
"You're just so unfair, my mother was right!"
"Can you give me a ride? I Love you Daddy. Good Night"

**Based on an actual conversation with Andrea my 16 year old daughter.


The sun peeks
just nose high
over the horizon,
“Kilroy was here”
making the proclamation
“Arise to the new morning”
Many things in store for you
if you only keep a watchful eye.
For nothing expected
can come to any good.
Surprises haunt you at every turn
Pulses churn to the dictates
of the clear and present chaos
that is promised this morning,
and every successive one.
Stand and assume the position
to take your lumps, for
the reward for a job well done
awaits when you take up your rest.
Do not be intimidated
by the manner by which you are called,
nobody said it would be an easy chore,
only that it would be worth it at
curtains final fall.
Put forth your effort
with all the aplomb you can muster.
Face the challenges as they present themselves.
Do not back down from a fight
you will be poorly prepared to win,
and are most assuredly destined to lose,
but the fight is still yours.
Live this life. Take no prisoners.
Hold nothing back for the final reel.
Grab the bastard by the lapels
and shake like hell.
Seize the day!


Your regimen is in control
you're taking off the pounds,
the image in your mirror
is quite a bit less round,
You watch your calories and carbs
you drink a lot of water,
your eyes get wide when you decide
to do something you shouldn't oughta.

You can't resist that peanut stick,
the Boston cremes look good.
Can't you see your belly filled with jelly,
do you really think you should?
Your stomach churns for crullers,
the lemon custards ooze,
you can't decide (but you gotta hide)
whichever one you choose.

You peek around the corners
to see whose eyes are spying,
Your mind is racing, just which one
will be the one you're trying.
You lift the lid to claim your prize
you're dying just to try it,
then comes the phrase that you despise,
"What about your diet?"

Then you walk away dejected,
your salivation's ceased,
Your craving for that plain old glazed,
is just about deceased.
So you grumble munching carrot sticks
when still you want to try 'em,
and you cry and moan 'til the cows come home,
"Just why the hell'd you buy 'em?"

Since you are on Weight Watchers,
counting points and such,
Never cozy up to a dozen donuts
the pressure's just too much.

"A moment on the lips,
a lifetime on the..." OH SHUT UP!

Saturday, June 6, 2009


I started writing at thirteen,
lyrics for a song I hacked out
on the old organ we had at home.

Melody first, a little loop
of sound full blown into a
song, my first attempt.

Looking at the words
scratched onto a page
of spiral notebook paper

tattered and lined
random thoughts
of a future love long gone.

It had form and meter,
it had rhyme, my reason,
a poem of sorts on my page.

A poem never to see
the light of day for years,
dead ended in a rusted file cabinet,

along with every other lame attempt
of poem and prose that
had me believing I had talent.

Maybe talent, but nary a whiff
of confidence to show the
work that was even at this early

date, very personal, a glimpse
of my inner self, the now me
in miniature, immature,

but with a dream.
To see my words light up
the pages of this book of life.

The flesh was willing,
but the spirit was weak,
my ambition was a wishful thought.

I wanted to write in the worst way,
and that was what I did,
in the worst way.

As the years passed,
I still tried to convince myself
that I was a writer, a poet

a composer, an untapped
resource in a disconnected
reality, a dreamer

working for his hearts desire.
Hard work, hard words
mired in the muse of my mind.

But determined to live
according to the dictates
of my nightly mystic visions.

I dusted off my file cabinet,
shooing the dusty webs from the
hidden treasures long buried.

I sent my words into the world
unsure of their worth,
afraid of their power.

Given to the eyes of
others of a write minded bent,
sharing similar uncertainties

of their own. They labeled me,
tattooed me with an identity.
They called me poet.

The name I wanted;
the name they offered.
Nothing is impossible.

Wednesday, June 3, 2009


So you had a lousy round of golf,
your drives were terribly short,
just tell me who would take this game
and turn it into a sport.

You’re awkward in your backswing,
you’re whacking like a klutz,
you’ve gone and insulted the women’s pro
when you asked her to look at your putts

You lost the sock for your driver,
the lake devoured your balls,
you broke six tees, and bruised your knees,
that WAS a nasty fall.

You should’ve taken a mulligan
for dressing in those knickers.
You haven’t got the legs for those,
they caused a lot of snickers.

You landed in each sand trap,
the wind was rather tough,
you hooked and sliced most every shot
that you buried in the rough.

And now you’re in the clubhouse,
you’re at the nineteenth hole,
you’re downing bourbons like they’re scotch,
you’ve surely lost control.

Your clubs have landed in the hearth,
your caddy tried to snag them,
you threaten not to sign his card
if he attempts to bag them.

The woods are near completely gone,
aglow amidst the pyre.
And all the duffers do agree,
you’ve got too many irons in the fire.


Why so sad Miss Sour Puss?
Why do you look so dour?
Your countenance is all screwed up
It’s been like that for hours.

You have those eyes that sparkle,
Reflecting nature’s glow,
The moon , the sun and all the stars,
Where did that sparkle go?

Your pearly whites are dazzling
It used to last for days,
But lately you deny their shine
You show a murky haze.

Your dimples used to make me laugh,
Their depth so deep and true.
But they’ve been hidden just the same,
Tell me, what IS wrong with you?

You boost me up when you are up
And when you’re down, you’re awful.
Being such a crabby thing, in fact
Should not be lawful.

So spread your grin from ear to ear,
Release your womanly wile,
And don’t forget this simple rule:
A miss is as good as her smile!


poets are a different breed
we see the world askew
for words we use
and thoughts we choose
appear to us as new
but these old adages carry weight,
and have for many years
and how a poet expresses them
can bring one full to tears
we all have come to fill the world
with poems, prose and rhymes
even if the words we choose
were used a million times
ideas can take a different slant
with every twist and turn
to see from new perspectives
surely gives us much to learn
so we come here every Wednesday
to stoke poetic fires
to share with all our where-with-all
and profess our heart's desires
flock together poets all
whether plain or pretty
take this prompt and have a ball
and write your little ditty
birds of a feather; poets en mass
joined in this community
writing beauty from within
to give our purpose unity
So if you have a way with words
and aren't afraid to show it
join our ilk and speak your heart
and you may be a poet

Tuesday, June 2, 2009



Calming serenity.
Congenial, affable,
peacefully coexisting.
Short of stature, but,
full of gargantuan dreams.
Mid-aged middle,
slightly round posterior,
roundly slight physique.
Rather myopic; presbyopic,
hair line in gradual retreat,
but never in full surrender.
Nicked, chipped, rough
and calloused hands.
Laid back and cool under
pressure and fire.
Observant and loyal;
were I a bird, your falcon;
were I a dog, your beagle.
Flat feet, reconstructed knees,
bum shoulder on my left,
always a right-hand man.
Never let ‘em see your sweat,


Fanatically frantic.
Undeniably, laughable,
quietly resistant.
Short of temper, but,
full of fire.
Simmering kettle.
Passionate, compassionate,
always thinking.
Cranium churning, never
burning out on words,
expressive, descriptive.
Nicked, chipped, rough
and calloused heart.
Writing from my soul,
my pain, my want and my need.
Comically unforgettable;
sometimes quite regrettable;
always “romantical”.
Productive, prolific.
fertile, fruitful,
deceptively youthful,
always a write-hand man.
Ever searching for the real


Night falls clumsily,
tripping over every wink, and blink, and nod.
A nocturnal clod, cohort of the sandman,
deliverer of sleep and nightly nocturnal visions.

My mattress beckons,
soft and trance inducing,
seducing me with thoughts of slumber.
And if I should such sleep require,

do I venture yet to dream?
For my nights used to provide
essential rest for my survival,
but most times I feel deprived of repose

for reasons not so clear
when nightly noises reverberate in my ear.
At times I find myself nodding
off to a place midway between

hibernations and dawning,
third star to the right,
and straight on ‘til morning.
These short catnaps are wonderful things

until my internal timepiece
loses moments to a snoring snooze.
But, fall asleep I do!
This creative soul tosses and turns

in Technicolor dreams, disrupted
by disorders of the night.
A narcoleptic siege pulls my eyelids shut.
Anytime, every time, anywhere, everywhere.

Disruptive sleep apnea
slaps them right open into
a sleepless stare.
CPAP be damned

if insomnia pays a call
and curse the midnight hour
should I take a somnambulistic fall.
Were I to approach a drowse tainted state,

my RLS will shake me, wake me kicking and flailing.
And then I remember the REM
and I slip into dream stage
as rapidly as my eyes can move.

One evening, I can fly.
No wings, no plane, just a soar
into the wild blue yonder…

There’s a loving reunion.
Sandy beach, roaring surf
and you back at my side…

A chase ensues, thrilling
and suspenseful, dangerous
and life threatening…

I’m riding on a bullet train,
the red-eye to morning,
strafe with innuendo…

Erotic arousals
in exotic locales,
every night…

Free-falling from the pinnacle
of an endless precipice
jolted awake by the treacherous landing…

Caught in a sensuous embrace
with a ravenous vixen.
We inch close to that passionate kiss…

…and my damn alarm
gives me a rude awakening.
Sleepus Interruptus!