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.

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. “

The north coast of Nova Scotia is somewhere between the middle of nowhere and God’s country.

Somehow, I was still there when I was 18, and she’d been dead for 7 years. I would still look for her whenever I was in a crowd of people. Straining searching. Imagining that she had faked her death to get away from me. My mother. By the fall of 1977, I guess I figured she was really dead. All of this I kept to myself. Winding wrapped tight. In my tiny bedroom on a twin bed in a mobile trailer on an acre of land at the edge of Deception River is where the nightmare began…

I ripped out the window screen at the foot of the bed one night and the screen at the head of the bed the next. Screaming some nonsensical rage about “I’ll get you! You motherfuckers!” The next morning the fingernails were torn and bloodied from ripping out screens. Both windows smashed.

I could hear the breathing coming from something somewhere. I held my breath and lay still on my bed, making sure it wasn’t me. I looked under the bed and under the trailer. Nothing. I was alone… except for whatever was breathing. It felt like it was coming from inside me. I had never been so terrified. I forgot to pray. I forgot God.

After a few days and nights of this, I realized that I had to leave that bed, that bedroom,that trailer, that acre, that river.

I left and never returned…

I’ve been listening to the masses.

They be trying to bring me down.

I’ve been taking master classes.

Ever since the blues dropped into town.

They are talking about oppression.

Like, it’s shiny and brand new.

So much horror in that lesson.

That ironic cake to chew.

They are raging, eyes are blurry.

Tears they fall like April rain.

Going nowhere in such a hurry.

Like they just discovered pain.

I’ve been looking for a chorus. That won’t break us into songs. Maybe something just to bore us. Take our rights back from the wrongs…

I remembered everything dramatic until I didn’t. I let that shit go, which is a monumental gift.

However, I  remember certain individuals from my childhood who, at the time, I thought were unreasonably cruel. Now I realize they were just human. Nothing more or less. So, to those people that I criticized on the eastcoast!,

“All Apologies!”

Being alone

Is like nothing else

Incomparable…

You discover things there.

That you couldn’t possibly know any other way.

I was looking for the answers.

Young Earth had just got old.

In a search for cure of cancers.

No one knew or truth be told.

I was reading at the Google.

Hummed a song that Kanye dealt.

I got drunk and played her bugle.

No one cared bout how I felt.

There are answers. I keep trying.

All this time that I could waste.

At the end, there’s no denying.

It’s all God. No copy-paste.

I realized this morning that I’ve been doing this for 10 years now, and I am going to switch gears and concentrate on writing my second novel, which has the title of… “The Chances Store.”

When I started this process, I was beginning to loath the word journey, only because of its overuse and haven’t changed my mind on this yet…

I wanted to leave a log for my then 2 years old daughter so she might know at a later time what was happening in my internal world at a time when she couldn’t possibly know. Now that she is 12, almost 13, and has entered the phase where I know nothing, I am feeling less generous about exposure to my soft underbelly and am more interested in writing a less gentle brand of fiction.

I will be reposting from time to time some of the more accepted and commented on writings from the last decade…

We were taught about this love.

From those who never knew.

They had heard the stories of.

From the dreamers and the few.

These survivors of those wars.

Who heard this from above.

To teach in words and metaphors.

To live, lie, and say I love.

I’ve heard them speaking of.

Just not certain or so sure.

I said I don’t believe in love.

So altruistic and so pure.

There is color in the flowers.

And moisture in the rain.

The rocks are hard and heavy.

And the soil holds all pain.

I’ve been dancing in the meadows.

I don’t dare to stay too long.

And only under darkened skies.

Where the thunder plays my song.

No more confab with the foolish.

Or the prideful, boastful voice.

I take it to the world at large.

And pretend I have a choice.

Sometimes, I miss delusions.

In the busy city streets.

And the chaos and confusions.

But not the phones and texts and tweets.