He was looking for the answers.

Not for money, nor for fame.

Not brought down by love or cancers.

So informed by guilt and shame.

He lied about so many things.

Just to keep them on their toes.

The rich, they yacht. The poor they sing.

The lies are everybody knows.

Some said he was a poet.

Some said he was insane.

But they could never know it.

What was running through that brain.

He was looking for some answers.

Not for money or for fame.

Not brought down by love or cancers.

Not informed by guilt or shame.

There’s such a quiet in the morning.

It’s just a silent cooling still.

It’s hard to know what is a warning.

When you’ve calmed that urge to will.

Dennis Mantin

He was staring at me in that way that has a tendency to make one feel uncomfortable.

The streetcar was crowded in the way that 2 o’clock in the afternoon is, and there was nothing between us but the empty Isle.

“You have a problem, friend?” I asked quietly.

“I’m not your friend.” He snapped and stood pointing his finger at me… He was bigger than I figured. 6’2″, 200 pounds. “You want me to kick your ass?”

“Be careful what you wish for.” I answered and continued. ” I jump over guys like you to get to a fight.”

And that’s when the trouble began.

The neighbor took to drinking.

And then fell into a rut.

Following the appearances of deep thinking.

Then, got all bloated around the gut.

There were moments of rage and ranting.

Followed by hours of hot debates.

And in the sparkling twilight hours.

Where so many mapped their fates.

He went out without a whimper.

I swear he didn’t make a sound.

And fell into the ether where…

So many before have drowned.

I was thinking, partly listening. I was nodding, but deep in past.

You were talking. I know it’s shocking. You were thinking this can’t last.

The balance is fractured broken. . There’s a movement in the air.

All that talking, and no listening. Spinning stuck in, ‘I don’t care.’

As a child you are a victim, an adult, a volunteer.

So many wrongs, and self abuse, in time to disappear.

The unforgiven have a prison that is dark and wicked deep.

If the unforgiving don’t let go then neither one can sleep.

A great unknown, that time has shown and sometimes looks like change.

If letting go has left some marks, then no words can rearrange.

Tears of laughter and tears of joy, they look the same I guess.

You killed my dog, I’ll kill your cat has no virtues; I confess.

So try and find forgiveness, or maybe just understand.

That if I hurt you I must confess it wasn’t really planned.

There is no book/essay that I can recommend more than this for the aspiring writer:

The pain is psychological, like the pleasure in my head.

The wars were pathological and replaced the living with the dead.

Said you wanted peace. But I think that you want more.

Cause peace is just a lease if you don’t make for war.

It is all in preparation. Like the proverbs wisdom tell.

It’s just a sad, sad situation. To not know heaven here from hell.

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!

I was running out of something.

Like patience, love, or steam.

Maybe never had them anyway.

Just a wish inside a dream.

Getting jacked up on adrenaline.

From a haunting distant fear.

Something real not imagined.

From a time called yesteryear.

So I sat down and did nothing.

No assumptions, to let it go.

I prayed and said some words to God.

Might be best that you don’t know.

“There are 32 ways to tell a story, and I’ve used everyone, but there’s only one plot, things are not as they seem.

Jim Thompson