I watched her rise and fall over our sleepy little town. That dead rock in the sky, that shines over us all… Who knows the secrets here? Where? Where everyone pretends that nothing happens.

The warm salt waters of the Gulf Stream flow north from Mexico, along the eastern continental shelf, passed Cape Breton and beyond. Cold arctic air sweeps down over frozen tundra and bristles raised hairs on hunched backs, along Labrador and into the Northumberland Strait. Where these 2 meet is a spit of land that rises out of the Atlantic, just north of New York City, and is formerly known as New Scotland. It’s because of this; the north winds and the south currents that the conversations here are usually always about the weather…

To an outsider, it would appear as if nothing else goes on here but the weather. However, appearances are deceiving. Nothing is as it seems…

Reminds me of the old joke… A man from the city asks a fisherman, “What do you do around here for excitement.”

The fisherman smiles, ” In the summertime we fish and we fuck. In the winter, we don’t fish. “

When you are young with no one to confide in, you have a dilemma...

When the world is smiling and saying, “You can trust me.” And the world lies. You find out there is no one you can trust; save yourself… You can become consumed with the fears, or you can drink. I chose the latter.

In hindsight, I knew something was wrong with me, I just didn’t know what it was. I eventually found out that I was an alcoholic. What a relief. I thought it was something far more serious.

Even if I’d have known that back in the day, I couldn’t be sure that this would have made a lick of difference, for I was too ill-equipped and young/immature to face any fears.

This is why I have said that alcohol saved my life. It kept me alive until I was able to face life without it… and for that, I am grateful.

“The world is changing. Grinding on its gears. Seemingly to new sets of rules. People are afraid and confused.”

Opening line of soon to be published novel be Dennis Mantin…

That year, you smiled and made that joke…

Got locked inside, and that voice spoke…

That year, you changed, I almost broke…

And found that road of rum and coke…

And we look back at history.

And smile soft at the misery.

I survived. Not you and me.

Something broke, and now I see.

And it doesn’t matter anymore.

You took. I gave and found the door.

Do you ever smile and say what for?

Or walk the walk or talk and roar?

Time rolls on and has her say.

Your sight was short, mine far away.

The dreamers’ dream is not today.

We were young, and that’s ok.

That year, you smiled and made that joke.

You got locked inside, and that voice spoke.

That year you changed, I almost broke.

And rode the trail of rum and coke.

August swung with beauty.

At a world so tired and torn.

Warm winds beat back the rains.

And I slept in past the morn.

I was dreaming about something.

That was lodged inside my head.

Now I don’t know what that was.

So I think of you instead.

Nhien brings me finer things.

Like grace and smiles warm.

Like, no August that I remember.

She’s my shelter from the storm.

“There is management, and there are those of us who do the work… they are the Stained Arrangers, and we are the Shiney Doers.“

This is how Zach O’Reilly viewed life. “The stained arrangers are the power structure, mainly white men and the women they are sleeping with, who makes up the management team and the ones who do the actual work are the mainly non-white labour’s force and that is where I really screw them up; being white and being in the labour’s force and part of the Shiney Doers.”

He was tall and thin, about 30, with short black hair and blue eyes. He pointed to the name tag embroidered on his dark blue polyester shirt. “When they gave me this uniform, I asked why. Why do I need to have my name on my shirt? ‘So the tenants know who they are talking to.’ Was the answer. To wit, I replied, ‘And you don’t think I have the abilities to introduce myself?’ At this point, the conversation ground to a halt…

He was explaining to us how he lost his job, and he seemed extremely proud that he had.

“You see.” He said and continued: “There are 7 types of workers. There are those that can, and there are those that can’t. There are those that do, and there are those that don’t. There are those that will, and there are those that won’t. And there are those who don’t give a fuck… I am a danger to those in charge; the Stained Arrangers… I look like them. I can, will, and I do, do the work. And I don’t give a fuck for their pretentiousness.

Zach took off his name labeled shirt and replaced it one less intrusive.

“Ah… now that feels better.” Zach smiled and walked away… somewhere.

I’ve been checking out the classics…

And the Russians and the woke.

And those crazy fucking Liberals…

Spitting words, so not to choke.

And all the world, they say a comedy…

Or a tragic staged surprise?

All the tears are not from laughter.

But their words are mostly lies.

When I was a kid in the 1960s, the farmers could be heard lamenting about a changing world that they feared.

Beautiful stone cobbled streets of small towns were replaced with “The Shopping Mall Generation!” AND cities grew. “Who would grow the food?” The farmers asked.

But did anyone see this coming down the pike? A generation so smart that they make money while they sleep?

A generation who became so important that not having children became for them, the best option. Which is probably the best thing since we can no longer determine genders…

I am not afraid. I am not in control. I am embarrassed… or am I entertained?

The pretty things were all dancing.

And we were looking for a sign.

Dexter danced and shook it off.

Like a Madman on the shine.

We were drinking at the Cascade.

At Leo’s five and dime.

Nothing much was making sense.

Until The Villians were the crime.

It came and went so quickly.

Like a fever at high pitch.

The Era went, and no one saw.

In silent darkness came the switch.

No one gave us warning.

Or at least not one that I heard.

And all the pretty things were dancing.

And the lines were kinda blurred.

The rain came down in buckets.

In heaps and sideways stacks.

Like knives and blades and pretty things.

Those were aiming for their backs.

I said, “You sound so paranoid.

All flat earth and out of tune.

Pretty soon, you’ll tell us.

That no one landed on the moon.”

Seeing smiles on those faces.

Who knew more than I could know.

Whose conspiracies that some came true.

And it’s to the hills we go…