She said, “We are all love and light.”

I suggested she sell crazy somewhere else.

I watch people escape the urban jungle and madness to peaceful soothing nature and return as if their experience is universal.

A few minutes in rush hour public transit and Mrs. Love and Light will be right back to rage against the masses.

There once was a dancer named Wayne

Who walked with a limp from his pain.   

He’d dance day and night.        

His insanity his plight.

Said, “The light in the tunnel it’s a train.”

                     

                              

She was lovely in that sunshine. Said she was searching for a song.

It wasn’t the words or melody or the need for right or wrong.

She was searching for some meaning or a feeling in her heart.

But that train had left the station and it was tearing her apart.

I told her it’s time to kneel, when all else fails pray.

She thanked me for mansplaining and I just said ok.

There once was a protester named Karen.

She’s protesting and hating and glarin.

She’s making things right.

Not her fault she’s white.

She’s just so damn smart and she’s sharin.

Dennis Mantin

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.

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?

I have watched the stubborn discourse of those self righteous sorts who have determined that they would rather be right than have joy.

I have felt that shame of misunderstood hate and unable to break the love I once felt, came to thankfully forgive both defects of character.

2 siblings who hadn’t spoken in 55 years were brought together by the impending death of one and within minutes, both were weeping because of a misunderstanding and all that wasted time.

An observer said, “I realized I was witnessing 55 year old tears.”

” 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.

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.

“He’s not coming back.” That was the prediction.

He’s tough! Armed with this will to live, yet seems unable to do this sober. I feel sadness for him like few others.

He was in a coma for 9 days and made it back to the land of the living.

I asked if he remembers anything from where he went during the coma. He said, “NO.”