I say, “I don’t care bout the little things.” But mostly, it’s what I do.

I try hard not to say too much. Because really, not much of it is true.

Damaged from pain, hard living.  So much is rotten to the core.

If I cared about the little things. Then you’d be knocking at my door.

There’s no hope, no silver linings. There’s no possibility for truths.

I was taught by all those scallywags. Changing costumes in phonebooths.

There are lessons in the darkness. There are rules no one adheres.

We don’t care about the little things.  Smile brightly, no speak of fears.

The Expectations were on fire.

Virtues had grown thin.

Love was hanging… worn wire.

Either side has needs to win.

The penalties were not known.

The lines drawn in the sand.

Emotions were hot and blown.

And nothing much seemed planned.

You took the gold and money.

I have this heart and soul.

I’m not laughing, but you are funny.

I have the kid: that’s how we roll.

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.

Flying low under the radar.

Anonymity still a thing.

Your obsessions here are going far.

No comfort do they bring.

You were singing in the spotlight.

To applause and some disdain.

When I was writing in the darkness.

In contemplation of your pain.

I remember how you suffered.

All the horror, that big brain.

Waves that crashed are now outnumbered.

The counting stops or goes insane.

I’m not saying I have the answers.

To finally bring you peace of mind.

Just float back down to earth, old friend.

You’ve done well, leave that behind.

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.

They held on with great fury.

Leaving marks of letting go.

And the blood it stained: don’t worry.

All scars heal, don’t you know?

They were courting with disaster.

Then again, was nothing new.

On the street, he walked right past her.

There were smiles. Resentments grew.

They got old and lost all memories.

In the end, they up and died.

They were buried by their enemies.

And in their eulogies, they all lied.

Several weeks ago, I saw Frank at 1a.m. in the 24-hour A&W in Parkdale. I asked him how he was, and he first said “ok”

I sensed something was off and pressed my senior citizen friend further to find out that he had lost his place and was indeed homeless.

Then I didn’t see him for a while…

I saw Frank again today, and he was looking well. He told me he was in another neighborhood and paying twice as much rent as before.

We exchanged pleasantries before I departed he said, “You know homelessness is a business, right?

There is something in the water.

In the air like flakes of snow.

Take the narrow to the broader.

I’m just learning letting go.

You are cold, and you are distant.

It’s all tell now and no show.

If I were just more consistent.

I could teach this letting go.

There’s a moral to this story.

Builds a plot like mold will grow.

There’s no need to say you’re sorry.

You taught me well this letting go.

I am cold and I am distant.

I’m all tell now and no show.

You teach well, so persistent.

Such a gift this letting go.

Jack was a career criminal at a time when him and his associates lived by rules and codes…

He was north of 60 when I met him and he swore he wasn’t going back inside.

Jack told me, “Everybody thinks they can go through life and not live by any rules. I’m here to tell you that you’re going to have to live by at least 2 rules.

Everybody knows knows rule # 1; however, very few know rule # 2; and… Rule # 2 is never shit in your own nest.”

It’s been 40 years since I’ve seen Jack and I like to think he managed to stay true to his rules.