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??

The ideas all went silent. All the writer’s are asleep.

The tongues are all about restraint, for the secrets we can keep.

The wise men are all now crazy. And the beggars found a home.

The sun is setting in the east and I never more will roam.

It’s all over but the crying and I’m broken up inside.

There was so much more I had to see but I’m falling with the tide.

The fights are all but over and I’m close to letting go.

The past is here and in between and love is all I know.

Every year she takes a trip; where it’s dark and forever cold. She laments about her beauty lost, and the pains of growing old.

I can’t say I know depression and for me it’s not always cheer. I stay silent when I’m smiling, my intentions aren’t always clear.

I don’t know how much I help her, I just point towards the sun. And tell her to enjoy the ride and that it’s only just begun.

She says, “How can you be certain?” I said, “Certain? I am not. ” But the alternatives are too frightening and this is all I’ve got.”

I have these memories from childhood. Down by the river, just me and the tide. Rising to me and falling to somewhere. Where are the others? What do they say? What are they like? What do they do?

It was like that on the farm… not knowing. A naive dream state where few answers were forthcoming.

I left the farm and the river to the answers, past where the tides went and now I am there… feeling contentment at having had that time of naivete.

I ventured out to my local market for a morning shop.

A man standing on Queen Street at Lansdowne is pissing into the street in full view of a streetcar. His piss is dribbling over his hands, and onto his pants and then on Queen Street.

A sign on the door of the Local Market states ‘if you are sick please do not enter.’ I enter with no other customers here.

I go home with my apples and flowers…