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.

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.

The Ancients started singing.

In an unfamiliar key.

The Stoners started dancing.

And staring at just me.

The Republicans they were drowning.

Outside the Democratic waves.

The Angel’s started humming.

Just some notes from Jesus’ saves.

A voice spoke said, “You’re dreaming.”

I screamed, “Please go away.”

They kept shaking in the evening.

Through the night and brand new day.

Now, the Ancients are together.

They are smiling like they knew.

Like they’ve known about forever.

And a different shade of blue.

They spoke, “Just keep on going.”

And I drifted deep in song.

Until I woke to someone crying.

I guess I had been away too long.

They were trippin’ at the Foodbank.

Probably not like nothing’s new.

I just dropped in about an hour ago.

Sure was shocked when I saw you.

You were weaving. Your head was bobbin’.

Wasn’t like the good old days.

We were planning and sometimes robbin’

Bigger plans and tight screenplays.

So much freedom at the Opera.

There is meaning in that there song.

Now here we are on Desolation Row.

With no sense of what went wrong.

I was looking for some meaning.

Or maybe just one more verse.

They say nothing lasts forever.

Not even blessings or that curse.

You don’t know. I don’t believe in that.

No bad luck was in your fate.

You kept feeding those addictions.

With no pause or meditate.

I was making that delivery.

I passed by and saw your eyes.

Not a hint of recognition.

Or any need for sad goodbyes.

You are in the rearview mirror.

I am deep in Dylan song.

And living gender politics.

Where most opinion is all wrong.

The passion of Kevin Clark was apparent and written in charcoal black letters at his sidewalk home at Adelaide and Bay in Toronto in 1999.
“You’re standing on my home.” Kevin said to me as I waited for the light to change with the others.
“How would I know it’s your home?” I asked.
“Because my name is written right there.” He pointed to the letters written on the sidewalk.
N.I.G.G.E.R.
Kevin smiled as he watched the look of shame that crossed my face…

Rising from some ancient conscience.

He said, “What nigger means to me is probably different than what it means to you.”
“What does it mean to you?”
“Never is God giving evil respect.”

Dennis Mantin

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.