Jason sits at Queen at Jameson, his head bowed slightly taking stock of the trinkets that sit on the sidewalk beside him. He’s been here for decades now.

You usually hear him throat scream before you see him and most that hear that pain walk around him to avoid what ever it is that Jason offers.

The trinkets and toys are from a child long gone or grown… I can’t be sure except this was Jason’s child when he was younger and living on the east coast.

Whenever I think I’m having a bad day or that the lawyer bills for my child’s custody and safety are too much… it’s Jason who provides me with perspectives.

Better to teach children about boundaries early on… rather than later, looking through plexiglass, asking for canteen money.

Dennis Mantin

I don’t know what it is, however… Whenever I read Bukowski… I want to write.

Maybe it’s one alcoholic speaking to another, I don’t know. A safe place for a sober, dare I say recovered alcoholic; hearing tales from a dead man?

No, it’s the courage that I lacked when I was down the rabbit hole that he possessed. To be so honest in and about his addictions, maybe that’s the identification that happens?

She said that Canada 🇨🇦 is a tricky land. Filled with tricksters and dishonest types.

“Filled?”

I am sometimes unsure if my questions take audible flight or if they remain stuck in my head behind an expression of suspended disbelief…

She continued. “Abusive people who stole the land from the aboriginals.”

I was reminded of a sentence in ‘Heart of Darkness’ “They were conquerors. Not much to brag about really when everything you have has been stolen from the weakness of others.”

“Yes… this is our collective human history. Don’t stare too long into that abyss; for you may become the monster my dear.”

I am tired of these humans.

I have had enough of me.

Technology replacements?

Oh AI, you wait and see!

They are waiting at horizon.

Just beyond your sense of smell.

With no talk of God or plans.

I trust you’re doing well?

Dennis Mantin

The questions they are many.

The answers are so few.

I couldn’t think of any.

Dad why’s the sky so blue.

I decided just to listen.

The breathe that sound within.

No need to make decision.

The finish line read begin.

It’s clear now see the circle

Spiraling round and round.

That sky now sure looks purple.

Nothing lost and nothing found.

We will keep on looking.

Cause that is what we do.

The end the final booking.

The mystery is the clue.

It’s all over but the crying.

I’m crying tears of joy.

Laughed so hard I pissed my pants.

Which really can annoy.

It’s not that it’s so funny

It’s just I’m laughing at you.

It’s so damn off putting.

When the tears have dried we’re through.

” This world is made for 50 year old men. ”

His voice rose above the stares and destain of the feminists and millennials who strained to see who dared make such a claim.

I thought it difficult to argue, remembering having that very thought in my twenties which was quickly followed with, ‘ah but they don’t have my youth.’

I doubt if either last as long as we think it will.

I watched him sink his aged face into his coffee and fade.

I had zero idea that my poverty ridden humble start in life could someday somehow be viewed as white privilege.

My single mother making $10/week plus room and board working 7 days a week would have little knowledge of her esteemed advantages.

Who knew?

She said, “They had it coming. “

I asked, “They got what they deserved?”

I asked her where she heard that?

Her smile kinda curved.

I said, “You know you’re only 8 years old.”

She said, “You know I’m almost nine.”

Sometimes I need to listen.

So I just took it as a sign.