It is drama in the kitchen.

Exaggeration on the phone.

Silence in the bedroom.

Until we are all alone.

It is drama all this bitchin.

Humiliation… no atone.

Beauty is just skin deep.

And Ugly goes to the bone.

I walked in silence on the snows hard crust.

My mind it roamed from wrong to the just.

I watched an eagle swing from the sky…

The silence was broken with his mighty cry.

He looked so proud. He looked so tough.

His freedom, his kingdom. His only musts.

Then, a mighty thrust that shook the air.

In seemingly gloom and much despair.

His blood fell on his rocks from our of the air…

And the silence was broken beyond repair.

No doubt nine times out of 10; Suicide is killing yourself in spite of yourself.

There was silence neverending…

“Oh now, just you never mind!”

Can’t tell lies without airbending.

Write it down, and I will find.

I am learning all your deceptions.

Teach old dogs your newest tricks.

Looking smart and clear complexions.

Smile sweetly, count the clicks.

We’re just over, condescending…

Just more silence in that smile.

I just read and past pretending.

You’re too young to stay in style.

When I was a kid in the 1960s, the farmers could be heard lamenting about a changing world that they feared.

Beautiful stone cobbled streets of small towns were replaced with “The Shopping Mall Generation!” AND cities grew. “Who would grow the food?” The farmers asked.

But did anyone see this coming down the pike? A generation so smart that they make money while they sleep?

A generation who became so important that not having children became for them, the best option. Which is probably the best thing since we can no longer determine genders…

I am not afraid. I am not in control. I am embarrassed… or am I entertained?

In the beginning… I saw glimpses of what you might call normal in the living rooms and kitchen tables of schoolyard friends. Those friendships never lasted for me, and in time, they ceased to exist even in my memory…

My behavior? I guess it was odd. Angry and loud. Sullen and sad or boisterous and much too much. The invitations dried up and faded fast. “He is strange.” I often heard.

I was tolerated as a boy. Feared in larger shoes. I moved a lot. Shifting. Fading. Reappear like smoke in mist…

Spent some time in the shadows there, with  others going nowhere. Found out I didn’t fit there either.

“You are strange.” I was told.

“What is this strange you speak of? I have nothing to compare with, really. I do not know this comparative myth of normalcy.”

In time, I grew quiet and introspective and listened to wise counsel who told me the source of my strange. I was childish, emotionally sensitive, and idealistic… and oh, so angry.

I looked into this-faced my fears, and asked for spiritual help.

Things are so much better, and I am far from normal. Being a bastard has shaped me. I couldn’t be with normal friends. Normal girls wouldn’t date me. They all let me know by rejection that I wasn’t worthy. This is what not having a father creates…

We were dreaming of a future.

Where something better came along.

When we could guide the children.

Where we could be that strong.

We were dreaming of a future.

And the future it is here.

And we are all so happy now.

There was so much crap to clear.

We were up against those forces.

In a post Thanos multiverse.

All the heroes, they now know.

To carry makeup in their purse.

Now that that’s been settled.

No more God or faith no more.

Our leaders are busy leading.

No more questions or out the door.

My mother was of the opinion that if you didn’t have something nice to say, then it was best to “shut up!”

Once we had neighbors, a couple; a man and his wife, whom she didn’t really care much for either of them…

She said, “On the positive side… at least you don’t have to spoil 2 homes with them.”

I was reaching for the exit.

All those fears had gripped the mind.

When a voice appeared by text-it.

Said, ‘Good love is hard to find.’

I’m not gripped by pain or sorrow.

Could complain about my share.

Just envisioned for tomorrow.

Without your face and smile there.

I’m just counting all those blessings.

Amidst all those yesteryears.

I stopped looking. No more guessings.

Let it ride. You have no peers.

There is a moral to the story.

In a world more void of love.

Hit the road and row your dory.

Keep it real. Push comes to shove.

A dory is a small row boat used by fishermen.
I knew we were in trouble when I couldn’t get Dexter to sit down as he tried to untangle the net, rocking the dory; taking on river water.
My warning,
“We’re going to sink if you don’t sit down . ”
This seemed to fall on deaf ears.
I remembered Harold’s wise words.
“If you think you’re going under, remove your rubber boots, or you will drown.”
I was sitting in my socks in the middle of the river, bailing water with a rubber boot as the dory disappeared beneath me. We had reached the tipping point.
The Atlantic Ocean water is cold in late October and adds weight to sweaters made of wool.
I heard Dexter splashing. However, my main focus early on was to not get tangled up in the net. When I was sure I was clear, I was dog tired and decided to allow my body time to recover for another push to shore. This required holding my breath and allowing myself to sink to the bottom Deception River.
It was here in the estuary with approximately 10 feet of the Atlantic Ocean over my head that I realized that it had been perhaps decades since I had prayed and this might be an opportune time to return to the practice. The prayer went something like this.
“Dear God… If you get me out of this; I will never drink again. ”
I pushed off the river bottom and swam towards shore in the darkness. I remembered Persy’s warnings,
“Don’t panic… to panic is death.”
I sank, stayed calm and reached dry land .
Dexter yelled from the opposite shore.
I sat for a moment cold and grateful to be alive and thought to myself… If I don’t get out of here, I’m going to die.

Dennis Mantin

While I was making peace with the Cockroaches in my Hotel Room, I was making love with another tenant, who was a lovely native Indian woman from Vancouver Island.

I found a job working at a car wash and marveled at how much smoother the paint was on higher end cars like Rolls Royces or Jaquaurs.

Then I got an evening job in the kitchen at the ‘Town Pump’, a venue for great live music and average food.

Then I got a midnight to 8a.m. job at Hambrger Mary’s, a 24 hour fast food joint that catered Hookers, Transvestites and a very colorful yet dangerous brand of streetlife.

I was working my way out Vancouver. I gave up the Welfare cheques. I gave up the car wash in the cold and wet, slept during the day and worked from 4p.m. until 8a.m.

Bill Kennedy the Hustler could not grasp why I worked so much. In this world of Skid Row; an honest God Fearing, hard working individual like myself was seen as peculiar, I think.

Bill suggested I take a look in the welfare office… He thought there would be cheques there with my name on them.

He was right.

I wasn’t so honest after all.

I traveled east by train.

Dennis Mantin