We were snowed in like Alaska.

South of Dixie Mason line.

It felt like the world was ending…

So we doubled up on shine.

There’s no moral to this story.

Except for snow, it melts like rain.

And if you double up on moonshine.

You will probably go insane.

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 is bouncing off the asphalt.

Pain is seared upon the face.

No blame pointing out fault.

Just some lives at the human race.

No need to be to be getting upset.

There’s no need to be packing heat.

The old ones are all standing.

So the young can have a seat.

I was thinking about the future.

Don’t know how long that will last.

By then, they will find the cure.

All this change is set so fast.

The morning that Vincent was shot, he placed a large order of painting supplies.

Mysteriously, the gun that shot him was nowhere to be found and was not recovered.

The authorities or anyone else who accepted the suicide narrative have never considered how a man who had trouble feeding himself could afford a gun.

And finally… a deathbed confession in the early 1960s by the last of 3 brothers who admitted that Vincent was shot accidentally by him and his siblings during a favorite pass time of their’s, of teasing and torturing Vincent when they were teenagers.

As a side note: Vincent didn’t cut off his ear and give it to a prostitute either. There is an actual police report filed by Paul Gaughan, who was the only witness as well as a master swordsman… Besides being a wonderful painter and a world-class arsehole, it is considered a known conclusion by those who have studied the police report that Gaughan undoubtedly cut off Vincent’s ear.

I’m not sleeping.

I’m not dreaming.

I am somehow still in bed.

Nothing creeping.

Nothing scheming.

Of what was and wasn’t said.

Best get up in the early darkness.

Sort through papers and a clean.

The sun will rise regardless.

Over what has or hasn’t been.

The darkness arrives with the cold.
Winter reminds us of the death we fear.
Will it linger here forever touching us with her frost and ice?
Staying, holding, swallowing, and enduring permanence?
If you’re reading this, then probably not today.
The unknown is like that.
Like being born.
Born into fear.
Faith is the bridge.

Dennis Mantin

I learned to meditate in prison from an old convict named Jack Miller. When I could melt the bars away, he taught me the rules of life. He said.

” Everybody goes through life thinking they don’t have to live by any rules…
“I’m here ta tell ya, yur gonna have ta live by 2 rules.
“Everyone knows rule number 1. However, very few people know rule number 2.
“Rule # number 2 is never shit in your own nest. ”
“What’s rule number 1?” I asked.
” I’m glad you asked.” He answered.

“It depends on what you are. If you’re a criminal like me, then it’s never get caught. If you’re a civilian, then it’s some version of do no harm to others.”
I confessed. “I think I’m a civilian. ”
Jack smiled, ” For you, my friend, I think that would be wise.”
Neither one of us ever went back. I was 20, and Jack was 60.

Dennis Mantin

I left them in the valley.

They didn’t move away.

They would live and some did die there.

I knew I couldn’t stay.

It’s sometimes just a feeling.

Not unlike you don’t belong.

Nothing that needs put into words.

Like a tune you hum along.

Now I’m older and I miss them.

Some will pick up when I call.

When we learn what is important.

If we dare to stand that tall.

The snow is in abundance.

Inside is toasty warm.

I have no needs outside and still…

I am going to face the storm.

Maybe a restless need is stirring.

Maybe crazy to the core.

I have prayed and taken vitamins.

Now I’m headed out the door…

I moved into the ground floor apartment at 77 Laxton with Al one floor above me and his son Mark one floor above Al; without incident.

After a few days, fears of running into Al faded into the distant foggy memories of past experiences.

I settled into a routine of shift work and Candice once or twice a week. She had a weird habit of calculating dollar value whenever we had sex. After she shared this tally with me the third or fourth time, I asked.

“So, you want this to be a hooker/john type relationship?” Then, the Candy experiences faded with Al into the mists of the past. Mark shared more Al stories with me, but I never saw much of either of them after that. I was asleep when I heard Al’s voice coming through my ceiling.

“I brought you into this world, and I can take you out! I will rip your throat out with my bare teeth!”

He repeated this a dozen times before I got up, dressed, went out my door, climbed the stairs, and kicked open Al’s front door.

Al slowly turned to face me. He was barely able to stand. Red faced in his underwear, drunk, and raged. He was holding a quart bottle of half consumed spirits. I walked towards him slowly, wagging my finger towards him and yelling. I stopped when I was right in his face.

“Al! If you don’t shut the fuck up and let me sleep I’m going to rip out your throat with my bare teeth… do you understand me Al?

Al’s eyes began to water. His arms shot out in an attempt to give me a hug. I stepped aside.

Finally, he said, ‘Dennis! Where you been?’

I burst out laughing and left. In that moment, Maltese Al was the loneliest man I had ever seen. I saw the price he’d paid for being a narcissistic abusive bullying cunt…

I moved somewhere soon after. I can’t remember the details. Wherever it was, it wasn’t with Maltese Al.

Dennis Mantin