The bad luck raised suspicions, on a path that was beat down.

No one dared to look within or see the wise men in the town.

It was happening for eons, as long as Grandad could recall.

Like a dark foreboding plank walk or a dream in which you fall.

Until the child spoke her words that, “Maybe somethings wrong with me?”

So we made a meeting with the Doc, down at the Family Psychiatry.

The doctor raised awareness and we all took a look.

Things are looking so good now, might take Grandma off the hook.

Now life is far from perfect however the family’s not so sad.

Looking in the mirror, not blaming blind luck, good or bad.

It is early in the darkness.

In the morning of my night.

Fighting off this starkness.

In a battle lost from sight.

They said, “It’s an only in your head thing.”

But I said, “Oh contraire.”

When they correct you on your spelling.

From concern like they still care.

Then the sun rose on that horizon.

That one with all those lines of light.

Where my dreams lie with the spies gone.

Cause most have lost the need to fight.

Chances were the premium at the chances store.
Called up their proprietor and asked for just one more.
Inside information suggested relocate.
When they closed the chances store, it sealed the users fate.
With no plans for the future and the future, it is here.
Who knew that the sun would rise and whisper last nights fear?
So we headed for the highway, which ended at the light.
Looked upon arrival, no chances store in sight.
Searching for the answers that will ease the fears.
Some will stand there crying and find few are buying tears.
All are someone’s baby lost along the way.
Strangers and sojourners who have lost the need to pray.
And I say, “Pray”

Dennis Mantin

I have not gone hungry.

My bed is flat and large and firm.

I have experienced that elusive love you all seek and dream of.

I have been granted the gift of getting old.

The complaints have not yet begun.

There’s this feeling that’s just so nearly…

Like the battered and the bruised.

I wonder if I heard clearly.

Deep down, I’m just confused.

There’s a man who’s screaming something.

In the face of that sad clown.

There’s a juggler in the spotlight.

That didn’t use the right pronoun.

The siamese twins grow tired.

Two heads can not agree.

Cooperation is required.

No discernments they can see.

The wives they seem so angry.

The husbands have that look.

Doesn’t much matter which way I go.

Either way, I’m on the hook.

And the men

I don’t know why my baby loves clowns.
Whose painted on tears never fall down.
I don’t know what she sees in their eyes
Perhaps the line between horror/surprise…

I don’t know why my baby can’t sing.
Why carnival music isn’t her thing.
It fills my head when I’m at the fair.
Searching for clues in clowns everywhere.

I don’t know why she screams at night.
I hope it’s not why she holds me so tight.
Because I’m the type I’m weak for love.
Carnival music I rise above.

Is it the pain or is it the tears?
For some carnival crime from yesteryears.
Maybe it’s you, maybe I’ll never know.
Maybe it’s me, baby let go.

(chorus)

Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the kings horses and all the kings men.
Tried and they tried but she fell down again.

Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
She went to her shrink ended up at the mall.
Humpty Dumpty wanted it all.

Dennis Mantin

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…