I’m sitting here doing nothing. We call it Standing by…

And Morgan is fucking Amanda and I’m to old to cry.

Another day in the Barrio. There’s not much that’s new.

Amanda is putting on some weight, and Morgan is in the blue.

I’m sitting here doing nothing. We call it standing by.

If it didn’t pay so well, it’d be enough to make you cry.

Catastrophe averted.

The warden was alerted!

Governor called at dawn.

Drafting papers absolution.

There was no execution.

The Hangman left. He’s gone.

The reporters seem conflicted.

The evidence was depicted.

Eye witnesses, deception, con.

From catastrophe to walkaway.

Freedom granted via DNA.

Freedom innocence, walking on.

Dennis Mantin

News broke at the dawn.

All parties were alerted.

All the nudes have nothing on.

The gamblers are addicted.

The addicts sometimes crave.

The opposition is conflicted.

And in silence, smile and wave.

No one has solutions.

And their voices, they still talk.

All these hanging executions.

The mood was light and airy.

All smiles seemed engrained.

They begged, “Stay in the moment.”

And yet, someone still complained.

No banquet halls were empty.

All musicians danced and played.

The bankers were all giving loans.

And the priests and wisemen prayed.

All pets were housed and fluffy.

All disease they found the cure.

The activists raised concerns.

To what? No one was sure.

I know it never happened.

I know it might sound rude.

But I have heard with mine own eyes.

People who complain about free food.

I was weary almost sickly. I slept, no tears to cry. The Hangman, in my dreams soft spoke; said, “This ain’t no time to die.”

I said, “You know I fear you.” He said, “Yes, and most folks do.” Then he said, “You know I’m kinda busy.” And faded into blue.

Now I’m driving down the highway. And it’s you that’s on my mind. Is no rhyme or reason. Only hope and dreams to find.

I was taking down some memories. They were old like dank decay.

A haunting hanging nostalgic romp, that had more than had her say.

There was no peace or harmony. Just a path without a sign.

We got to travel that way once. You went your way, I went mine.

There was this thing for beauty. That used to be the rule.

Not a curse I’d wish on anyone, but I used to be that fool.

There’s a virtue called forgiveness. I’ve been drinking from that glass.

There’s a dot on that horizon. Give it time. This too shall pass.

“Just January cold, and you know Jesus!

Can’t complain, but I still do.”

Balls on brass monkeys cold and freezes.

Although not all is frozen blue.

No one asks me for much time anymore.

Good thing because I don’t choose.

Don’t know why or how or what or for.

It’s not contagious it’s winter blues.

There was something in a feeling.

For sure, I did not know.

The onion layer was peeling.

Was no win, no place, no show.

I was minding my own business.

I have faith but not the cure.

It’s just something in a feeling.

The closest thing I know to pure.

Mostly distant, getting clearer.

Fading farther rearveiw mirror.

A losing hand and change the dealer.

Someone said time is a healer.

Desire lost could not be crueler.

Turn the page, her sisters cooler.

You could let loss be your ruler.

Tried your best. You couldn’t fool her.

My father was very careful and thorough: Only now, I can see and appreciate the brilliance in the absence of his efforts. To not have to unlearn anything is proving to be invaluable.

To have a lifetime of trial and errors without the bothersome interference of elders teaching and paving the way can now be reflected upon in a rich tapestry of original experience.

Thanks, Dad!