listening to Frank Sinatra recordings from
1939 to 1942
at end of my endurance
I near my 100th poem
what a fucking miracle, I tell you
it's been a great journey through the night baby, so
thanks for sticking by
but before this song is over I want
to tell you that
not much has changed
the nights are still lonely and
the love has been
coming around
since February of 2006
(same reason I started in the first place)
and the voices haven't changed either,
Frank Sinatra with
Tommy Dorsey and Count Basie
have been playing from their
grave for years now
the bone trombone and
skinny trumpet have shaken this
soul to the edge of vibrato
Dean Martin has the crowds fickle
as I dream of a time
when he would ascend the grave
and say: "hey baby-o, don't worry bout' the dumb broad!"
Yea Dino, but can you believe it though?
I'm almost there, poem 100 and
all I have to do is find a way to finish and be
done with it.
"the ultimate mystery is one's own self" says Sammy Davis
yeh tellmeaboudit!
but listen,
you think I can make it?
the hell you can!
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