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.

They were meandering in the walkways.

We were all at City Hall.

All were there for different reasons.

Some, really, for no reasons at all.

I was resigned to fate or fortune.

Masquerades as fail/success.

I had bagged all paper signatures.

I prayed and said, “God bless!”

There’s this memory of Fredrick.

Where he wrote that God is dead.

And all the demons there danced with joy.

Mistaking what he said.

I’ve been watching praying listening.

All these decades turned to years.

And I don’t think he’s dead at all.

The plot is in arrears.

I was told early…

“Not everyone will accept your attempts at Amendment.”

I have had great success in this arena. I can count on the fingers of my hand and have didgets left over to those who have not forgiven me.

I will not dwell here.

I can not. They have the right.

I have decided to live and let live.

Your wounds are deep.

I am truly sorry for harms done.

To not forgive is a burden I don’t wish to carry and wish on none.

We’ve been in the battle royal.

Taking chin shots in our stride.

Telling myths so we don’t spoil.

Laughing loud, the truth inside.

It is such a lie, all this beauty.

Of Kings, Whores and Lonely Men.

No more joy. Accounts and duty.

Bite your tongue and count to 10.

Having thoughts lots about dying.

And other things that I don’t know.

Its not the fear that’s got me down.

Just that I don’t want to go.

Now sure I know I have no choice.

Has been made abundant and clear.

This transformation is all the rage.

I just kinda like it here.

I hear all this complaining.

What’s wrong about this and that.

You never really stood a chance.

With an attitude like that.

I recognized my nature.

Not much was steeped in good.

There was this strange sensation.

Like maybe I just should.

Forget it all and start a new.

Take the narrow view to wide.

Take my head out from my ass.

And maybe look outside.

Not all is gain or glory.

Not all is pain and strife.

The road the path the choices made.

It’s a wild ride this life.

Quite often, people say “the tip of the Iceberg.” When they want emphasize that the events are far greater than what meets the eyes.

I generally wonder when I hear this…

“Are you sure?”

Now, I’m saying it out loud because it’s been my personal experience as well as my observational opinion that humans are  prone to extreme exaggerations when trying to convey that their experience is the universal norm.

Let me give examples for this possibility:

1 Alcoholics make up 10% of the population.

2 Psychopaths make up 1%

3 Sociopaths 4%

4 Narcissists 0.5% or 1 in 200.

Not accounting for overlap, of which there certainly is, this loud opinionated motley crew would make no more than 15.5% of the population. Which means that their experiences are vastly different than the rest, about 84.5%.

Now, if and when you supply this very vocal opinionated 1 in 6 minority with the internet ; their opinions really might be only the ‘Tip of the Iceberg’. With the rest of the iceberg right where it should be.

Few are wrapped as tight as Frothy.

No awareness to calm down.

Got stranded on the mainline.

On his way to meet up town.

There were words with the conductor.

Who had clearly had enough.

The Conductor is on the evening news.

He’s been traumatized and stuff.

Transit commission they are hiring.

The trees are forming buds.

And Frothy is in recovery.

Plotting pay back, blowing suds.

I watched her rise and fall over our sleepy little town. That dead rock in the sky, that shines over us all… Who knows the secrets here? Where? Where everyone pretends that nothing happens.

The warm salt waters of the Gulf Stream flow north from Mexico, along the eastern continental shelf, passed Cape Breton and beyond. Cold arctic air sweeps down over frozen tundra and bristles raised hairs on hunched backs, along Labrador and into the Northumberland Strait. Where these 2 meet is a spit of land that rises out of the Atlantic, just north of New York City, and is formerly known as New Scotland. It’s because of this; the north winds and the south currents that the conversations here are usually always about the weather…

To an outsider, it would appear as if nothing else goes on here but the weather. However, appearances are deceiving. Nothing is as it seems…

Reminds me of the old joke… A man from the city asks a fisherman, “What do you do around here for excitement.”

The fisherman smiles, ” In the summertime we fish and we fuck. In the winter, we don’t fish. “

I used to say there are 7 types of people.

Those who can.

Those who can’t.

Those that will.

Those that won’t.

Those who do.

Those who don’t…

And those that don’t give a fuck…

However, now I think that there are 2 types of people.

Land lovers and water people.

I have been land locked most of my life.

I think I want to live the rest of my life on a boat, preferably on the Bra D’or Lakes.  I will not own a car. I will let my license expire. I will be a fisherman.

If you want to see me, you will have to come to Washabuck and look for a boat.