The major benefit from the misfortune of childhood tragedy I have found is the awareness of such pain has left me with zero desire to repeat these events with my own child.

I have consciously sought a relationship of trust and honesty with a keen eye towards avoiding humiliation.

I miss that time before people knew everything and even the annoyances of the occasional… “I don’t know.”

It’s Truman and Capote.

Shakespeare and Macbeth.

It’s Homer and the Illiad

And Merchants peddling death.

It’s the Bible and the Proverbs.

Commandments and the rules.

It’s Fredrick and his observation

Of Kingdoms and the Fools.

It’s Dostoevsky and the Russians.

It’s sometimes you, often me.

It’s story that we’re telling.

And there’s no fiction that I see.

I’m losing at this Bladder War. A search is on and you know what for. A public toilet with an unlocked door. Dreams beyond I have no more.

Valentine’s day is over and the chill has lost its cold.

The romance isn’t over but the truth has not been told.

I loved her for her beauty and I still live alone.

Her smile was on the surface with ugly to the bone.

The old girl said “don’t worry… there’s many in the sea.”

I said, “I’m not worried, I like my company.”

I heard you whisper. Not a shout.

A tear. Your sister. Let it out.

Trapped in time. What’s that about?

You drink and sink. Just breathe and float.

So much secret held inside.

Big brave face all smiles wide.

Speak no truth you don’t confide.

Such a human humbled lie.

You learn. You grow. You stand tall.

You talk the pride before the fall.

You let it go. Don’t hit the wall.

You hear. You see. You don’t know all.

No I never met her, she was legend around the Lake. Beautiful as a ballerina and colder than a snake.

They said no man could refuse her but some were glad they did. And the one she selected, is in a bottle where he hid.

Until his son came calling, “Dad now it is OK.”! I’m 16. She’s left for the coast, and her beauty’s gone away.

The moral of the story or so that I’ve been told, is head removal from your ass gets easier when you’re old.

The day the voice moved in with me… He brought his good friend fear.        Said we all share your heart and soul. You’ll soon forget we’re here.

The day the voice moved in with me. Peace and sleep moved out. And the addict he was at the door. The Voice did jump and shout.

Said, “We like you, we like it here.          We know you like us too. And we know you’ll like our friends cause true friends are so few.

The Voice would talk for hours about nothing much at all and all the noise would wake the fear and the drunk would wake withdrawal.

Years had passed in tears and stains and I had to kill the fear. The Voice he left in the middle of night said he didn’t like it here.

The Voice returns sometimes when I sleep, but he’s gone when I’m awake. The strength it took to kill the fear was more than he could take.

The drunk is with the addict and they live from coast to coast. And sometimes when I pray to God, I pray you’re not their host.

Singing… We like you we like it here and we know you like us too. And we know you’ll like our friends cause true friends are so few.

I am reading James Joyce and his fabulous stream of conciousness and I am reading Marshall Mcluhan and Mcluhan was a fan of Joyce which is interesting in that Mcluhan is writing about awareness and conciousness and James is demonstrating in writing how we think and in efforts to be a writer and I am thinking it would almost be unconcious to be aware of these 2 and not beg, borrow, steal here. No??