I heard her yell before I saw her or heard her speak. When I finally figured out who it was, she whirled around and yelled behind her, ” Nobody likes you anyway!” Mid forties, angry, indistinguishable white.

The light had changed, and anyone who might have been her intended target was moving away from the rage.

What cruelty. Nobody likes you anyway. What a fucking thing to say. What a thing to think. To justify yourself with such belittling. I’m right because no one likes you… I knew it wasn’t me she was yelling at, but it took me back to somewhere long forgotten, far away.

Why do they crave the thing that’s killing them? To deal with their fears.

Alcoholics generally tolerate the shortcomings and defects of others. This is where I differ, which I’m guessing is what makes the meetings so intolerable for me.

(A bird just shit on me)

The sun is shining, and I’m not working, and the girl is off to school…

I got through the rough patch.

Nothing ventured, little gained.

I’m feeling a little underwhelmed.

And yet, so much needs explained.

From the outside looks like nothing.

Like a bum that’s lost the gold

However, all these inner dealers.

They be juggling, bought, and sold.

Someone cleaned the cupboard.

Naturally, you did come to mind.

But the silence tells another tale.

And the truth is far from kind.

Almost 20 years in, and I’m remembering everything… It’s what I wanted to write accurately about the human condition.

I wasn’t the victim. I was something else. I was a volunteer.There’s a different focus now. To stop judgment and write more than one P.O.V.

Diane wasn’t a bad person. She was just messed up, and sex was her drug. I was too needy to say no. She had kids and a husband. The marriage wasn’t good. However, I knew the difference between right and wrong. I stayed long enough to fill myself with fear and tried to drink my way out. It took me a long time to forgive myself.

No more waking with Sunday sunrise.

I stay in bed till almost 8.

It’s not for fear or love or unwise.

I just got caught in memories gate.

I’m getting up to go to church, see…

Haven’t been in quite a while.

I sometimes feel so unworthy.

But even that can make you smile.

There is this thing of just not knowing.

That gets me here most every time.

There is no win in place or showing.

Then again, it’s not a crime.

There’s not much left now in the early morning darkness; just the memories and the insanity of truth.

I was younger then and reckless with drink and consequences. The fear found me, and I was the one to blame.

They were good people, some of them, but like anyone bored with the mundane; they were looking for anything for a fix…

I felt the city walls closing in around me, and I had to leave. No amount of alcohol existed that could fix that.

“In N.Y.C. everyone walks with their heads down… hardly anyone looks another person in the eyes.”

I can’t remember who said that, but it must have been Mr Whilmshurst, my grade 8 history teacher. He was the only person I knew who traveled when I was younger.

The theory for this behavior was inconclusive.

I see people behave like this in Toronto. They don’t want to be bothered by people they don’t know. And with good reason. It’s a class thing and fear. People are begging for money mainly.

Sometimes, I have given. After giving 3 times, it’s expected. After 4, they are dependent. I have seen one of these dependents see me and run across traffic to get to me… then I said no.

I’ve been coming here for eons.

Keep my back towards the door.

I like the changing entertainers.

Keeps me coming back for more.

There’s the cafe and the authors…

And the painters don’t get loud.

The owner is a friend of mine.

Who swears she’s not too proud.

There’s a singer on the posters.

And some dancers on the floor.

If no one’s talking politics.

I’ll be coming back for more.

I’ve been coming here for eons.

Keep my back towards the door.

I like the changing entertainers.

Keeps me coming back for more.

There’s the cafe and the authors…

And the painters don’t get loud.

The owner is a friend of mine.

Who swears she’s not too proud.

There’s a singer on the posters.

And some dancers on the floor.

If no one’s talking politics.

I’ll be coming back for more.

The gifts, they are in harmony.

Songs so real, come alive.

Like heartbeats steady drumming.

There’s no thinking in that drive.

Just some sadness steeped in sorrow.

About some loss or need to be.

That I’ll steal beg or borrow.

Just to love or hear or see…