Quarantine Monday mid June.

This weekend will end sometime soon.

Atlanta is burning.

Stomachs are churning.

Is America the Great in ruin?

How many therapist’s does it take to change a lightbulb?

None.

The lightbulb has to want to change.

I never knew what happened, but I guessed that it was bad.

By the way you laid there moaning behind eyes that were so sad.

You asked for money for the bus, I just coolly walked on by.

You yelled that if you had a gun then I could wave goodbye.

I know that nothing happened, it’s just drama in your head.

It’s just my daughter heard you say that you wished her father dead.

It has never been more clear.

The choice is faith or fear.

The hour it is late.

I choose love not hate.

Peter screams at the man on the curb of our property going through the nuts and bolts in buckets that he’s using as a distraction from the very pain and suffering that our super is reigning upon his being right now and I have so little empathy for Peter’s rage and self righteous indignation and the source of that… yet here it is in all it’s vain stupidity, addicted to its own noise and bluster on such a hot summers night.

Dennis Mantin

It’s never a bad thing to tell someone a good thing.

In the mid 80’s I spent more than 3 months at the beach, swimming in the Northumberland Straight off the coast of Nova Scotia as if I knew it was the last time this luxury would be afforded me.

I sucked up as much vitamin D and sea salt as was possible before ascending to the golden fields of opportunity and commerce armed with little more than great health and a shitty attitude.

This summer I sit on a beach and watch my daughter play and build in the sand and sun and feel blessed for that summer and all that preceded and followed.

When I was young, very young. Before words. Before I could express myself with any sense; I felt frustration and rage.

Later with a limited vocabulary I felt frustration and rage and expressed myself emotionally and watched them leave.

I am now certain of my disdain and disgust for much of humanity and not just my tribe.

 

Ratso was the name given to a baby squirrel that fell from it’s nest and was rescued by IVAN who nursed Ratso to health to the point that the squirrel treated my neighbor like its mother until one day last week Ivan didn’t see Ratso under his feet and shortly after there was a squirrel burial in the front yard.

Ivan seemed sad.

When we returned home today, Zylia said. “I’m sorry Ratso.”

Life is like that.