Vincent might have been a better writer than he was a Painter, and unless you’ve read his letters to his brother Theo; then I’m certain that you might want to debate. I’m not interested…

I have read volumes on this mans life and death, and never have I encountered so much absolute bullshit and misinformation surrounding one person. This is the problem. If the public and humanity are so easily fooled, then all history comes into question.

Vincent Van Gogh did not cut off his ear and give his discarded body part to a prostitute… There is an actual police report, and the only witness to this supposed mythology was master swordsman PAUL GAUGHAN. Paul was not much for fiction. However, he did manage to fool most everyone with his efforts here.

Paul Gaughan cut off Vincent’s ear and created this story to evade jail. Scotland Yard detectives came to this conclusion several decades ago when they studied the police report. Vincent was too drunk to remember anything.

In the 1960s, the last of 3 brothers died, and on his death bed confessed that it was him and his brothers who accidentally shot Vincent. Vincent took days to die and was conscious, and he took this secret to his grave to ensure that these 3 brothers, his tormentors, wouldn’t be punished.

It’s my opinion that based on these 2 almost incidental examples; that history has a major problem.

The cold bore down upon them.

No signs of heat or heart.

Just murmurs of some warnings.

Like they told you from the start.

But NO! You wouldn’t listen.

And now you know the way.

If only you can get through this!

Just to live another day…

Some will heed your warnings.

Some will pray for shithouse luck.

Some will calmly walk through fire.

Smile sweet, don’t give a fuck.

---

I was about 20 when I heard Robo Jack say,

“I’d rather be a living coward than a Dead Hero. “

I remember laughing and rarely had I ever heard anything that completely changed my behavior as much as this…

Well done, Robert!

There was meaning in her silence.

A force in that smile.

I was at the launch of damaged past.

And she heaped me on that pile.

There’s a time for cool reflection.

Contemplation to be clear.

And there’s a time for quick escape.

And acknowledgment of fear.

I left her in the meadows.

I was shaking at the shore.

The tears are from the laughter.

And her silence has a roar.

I’m cranky in the morning.

The cat is under my feet.

Looking for something anything.

A furry meet and greet.

I’m cranky before coffee.

And sometimes at mid-day.

Then all the bad vibes vanish.

Like you and the cat, they go away.

It is cold. The earth is frozen. Just hours from February frost.

January has come and left, and we don’t know the cost.

There is going to be big reckoning. Of this, you can be sure.

Someone somewhere is keeping tally. Mathematics payback pure.

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.