I am misunderstanding almost everyone.

I really don’t get people.

I can’t read them or their minds.

I misunderstand their intentions.

I think most of you are lying anyway, mostly to yourselves.

I am comfortable being alone.

I have my thoughts and books and the mad souls.

I like writers, especially those who show intention.

You might not like them as people or their characters, but at least they show you a glimpse of reality.

The mad are less ambiguous. They spout their truth. However, it is difficult to be present in such huge amounts of rage and disappointment.

I am in the boring now.

The routine of day to day necessity.

It’s what I wanted. What I craved.

Be careful what you wish for and all that!

The unpredictable past haunts my mind.

The Chaos never goes away.

The Chaos has a file. A compartment.

I can safely go to that compartment.

I explore who I was then and let it go.

This is perhaps the luxury of survival.

I am exploring the boring now.

I like it.

I had a headache and felt like crap.

I took a long extended nap.

You know… the way retirees do.

Across the time, planes, and plantations.

My dreams are just fields of explanations.

Show me histories of me, not you.

I don’t ask, I don’t confide.

I bear witness, and there’s a guide.

Let’s me see, then she fades to blue.

I don’t fight. Wouldn’t if I could.

I’m taking notes, I think I should.

I listen well. It’s what I do.

There’s no fear, no missing, no longing.

Just this sense steeped in belonging.

I see my Mom, our daughter, but not you.

They seem to know me. They bear witness.

With no mention for your forgiveness.

Like me, with you, they are through.

I wake up, and the pains are gone.

There’s a light where darkness shone.

And so much more, I never knew.

I’ve decided to retire.

Put my feet up by the fire.

My time does not require.

Running hard at Hill and Mire.

I won’t fight it, I accept.

It came fast, so quiet crept.

I’ve paid it all, all the debt.

No tears here. They’ve all been wept.

I’ll be a Dad. I’ll read a book.

I’ll paint and write and maybe cook.

I’ll take it all, I’ll be a crook.

I’ll be seeking God and the time it took.

I was a boy when people asked me…

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

‘Unafraid.’ I thought.

“I don’t know.” I answered.

I just wanted people to stop hitting me. I just didn’t want to be afraid all the time.

I grew tall and people asked me.

“Why are you so angry?”

“Why do you drink so much?”

“I don’t know. ” I lied.

I am 58 years old and I am a father and I know what I want. To teach her and show her love and support her and be her friend… and paint and make films.

“I will tell story.”

Said I.

Dennis Mantin

Having thoughts lots about dying.

And other things that I don’t know.

Its not the fear that’s got me down.

Just that I don’t want to go.

Now sure I know I have no choice.

Has been made abundant and clear.

This transformation is all the rage.

I just kinda like it here.

I hear all this complaining.

What’s wrong about this and that.

You never really stood a chance.

With an attitude like that.

I recognized my nature.

Not much was steeped in good.

There was this strange sensation.

Like maybe I just should.

Forget it all and start a new.

Take the narrow view to wide.

Take my head out from my ass.

And maybe look outside.

Not all is gain or glory.

Not all is pain and strife.

The road the path the choices made.

It’s a wild ride this life.

It is drama in the kitchen.

Exaggeration on the phone.

Silence in the bedroom.

Until we are all alone.

It is drama all this bitchin.

Humiliation… no atone.

Beauty is just skin deep.

And Ugly goes to the bone.

I lived in a land where the men would brag about how tough they were… I wasn’t from  there, so not being related to any of these so-called ‘Tough Men’, I didn’t know if they were telling the truth or if they were indeed really all they said they were.

I had spent several years previously in the Foster Care System, and when you grow up  in your formative years without either of your parents and you have nothing to compare this experience with, you don’t realize until much later that all kids don’t grow up in the same way as you.

When you grow up with your parents, especially both of them, you have a much greater chance of feeling loved or wanted by at least one of them. You are not burdened with such inconvenience when you are raised by strangers.

Because perhaps they didn’t show me too much favor; I, in turn, did not show it back to them. It was a great opportunity for honesty and forthright expression.  “I wish you were dead!” AND “I can’t stand the sight of you!” Take on a less personal bend when one realizes that this is great preparation and fodder for life in the real world.

Survival is key because if you don’t survive, then you aren’t going to be around to tell many stories, now are you? Once the surviving becomes a reality, you must of course find the courage to accept the facts that you are one fucked up puppy who is in need of serious therapeutic council.

Having accomplished all of this, then becoming a parent and ensuring your child does not endure the same intergenerational transmission of family disfunction that you endured is of the utmost importance, or else, what was the fucking point?

I am so grateful for this unique experience of life… Am I making it look easy?

The sentence was death by boredom. The virus spread the earth.

Madness rained down upon them. Like some monsters giving birth.

They handed out free money. The kind that makes you soft.

And nearly jumped out their skin. When someone smiled and coughed.

Then Dylan put out an album. With a song called Murder Most Foul.

That sounds as disgusted as I feel. Like the purging of a bowel.

I’ve learned to take the blessings and take them as they come.

He is at another level, a bit too much for some.