The toast was not burnt I swear.

The cream was fresh and chilled.

The rosè was a vintage fine.

And no goblets were broke or spilled.

Somehow I just woke grumpy.

From my king size goose down bed.

I probably owe apologies.

For something or other I said.

Sometimes there’s no reason.

For my less than kind retorts.

It doesn’t mean that I don’t love or care.

It just means I’m out of sorts.

The sentence was death by boredom. The virus spread the earth.

Madness rained down upon them. Like some monsters giving birth.

They handed out free money. The kind that makes you soft.

And nearly jumped out their skin. When someone smiled and coughed.

Then Dylan put out an album. With a song called Murder Most Foul.

That sounds as disgusted as I feel. Like the purging of a bowel.

I’ve learned to take the blessings and take them as they come.

He is at another level, a bit too much for some.

“What a great idea… Do you know what this place is missing? A box of shit in the living room! Let’s get a cat.”

Her voice has not gone silent.

With this distance I can’t hear.

She’s yammering somewhere to someone.

About something, let’s be clear.

A story about a victim.

A heroes journey with a cause.

And an abusively bad bastard.

Who can surf above the laws.

She can speak with such conviction.

And for for sure those will be tears.

Don’t feel bad, she’s fooled the experts.

A practiced art for tired ears.

Some people think I miss her.

I never learned to be that tall.

Truth be such admiration.

For such bold impudent gall.

Saturday past midnight.

Every star is in the skies.

I am waiting for the sun to come.

To go home and close my eyes.

They are filming in the shadows.

Stuntmen fight and lovers dance.

There is something in the sequel.

About a heroes second chance.

I’m not being callous or cavalier.

I’m not saying I don’t care.

I’m not saying that I’m not grateful.

I’m just got old and I’ve been there.

I was tired from the outset.

My brain had just shut down.

We were waiting for the time change.

All the warmth had just left town.

I was living near the freeway..

With small beds of memory foam.

There was nothing to remember.

And no hair was left to comb.

When I tripped on your umbrella

You were huddled under rain.

I was hungry and delirious

I was buckling from the strain.

Then this sound that was like singing.

Sounded like a thing that you might keep.

And I faded off to dream world.

In a deep and monstrous sleep.

I

A Goddess, she was lovely.

Had me trembling at the knee.

But one bad use of pronouns.

And you know I had to flee.

Roses are Red

Life Isn’t Fair

The Big Head Speaks

And I Don’t Care.

When men feel stress, they process.

When women feel stress, they talk.

Generally speaking, women feel uncomfortable with the men’s process because it happens in silence.

For a man to talk when he’s stressed only increases his stress.

I’ll just leave this here and go away for a while and write…

Talk among yourselves

OR

Process by yourself.

Dennis Mantin