I feel her rise at centre stage.

That spotlight shine on dear old rage.

The winds of change are circumspect.

Bang that drum… demand respect.

I’m older now, can cool that rise.

Looking for nothing in anyone’s eyes.

He removed the mask from his face long enough for just one breathe, revealing a face of true exasperation and I thought to myself ‘i feel your pain’ before flipping back that clothe over his mouth and nose, breathing deep he settles into acceptance.

Late nights where sleep won’t come. Late mornings when I can’t get my ass up. Nothing is making much sense… I can hear humanity in the distance yelling anger discontent and I realize there are reasons I live alone.

Stocks are dropping.

Anxiety is rising.

Real estate is taking a dive…

Suffering is holding strong.

She woke me with her text of madness. She spoke of moving mountains and her ferocity; something about a lioness.

There was also some nonsense about sabotage and some such drama.

I serve a purpose.

I am a depository for delusional thoughts.

At a bench on Jameson with a coffee in hand surrounded by strangers some masked in the warmth of the noon spring sun.

Liza is screaming in the distant bus shelter she calls home as an older masked woman feeds the pigeons and speaks to me about human cruelty and God’s will which reminds me I found a bird on Queen Street unable to fly so I put it in Ivan’s garden of evil in hopes it might have a better chance as Paul calls and tells me about that the formation of one world church is closer than I think…

Might be time for a second cup of coffee.

I need to pee, I’m on the train. 

Smiling bright, expecting rain.

I’m at that age where I don’t care.

Except when i do.

Which is getting rare.

I find a corner.

Where i can go.

Someone screams.

At me…

I know.

All in my head.

I sit in pain.

The sun shines bright.

Expecting rain.

Feeling something I might know.

It’s from far away and long ago.

Don’t want to stay and don’t want to go.

It’s proud and frail, like in limbo.

I’m by myself I’m welcome here.

The fog has lifted but not the fear.

I’m being vague, with little clear.

Proud and frail and just a little queer.

It’s 70 days of quarantine.

All alone and sight unseen.

Lost in trials of what might of been.

Frail and proud and maybe mean.