There was meaning in her silence.

A force in that smile.

I was at the launch of damaged past.

And she heaped me on that pile.

There’s a time for cool reflection.

Contemplation to be clear.

And there’s a time for quick escape.

And acknowledgment of fear.

I left her in the meadows.

I was shaking at the shore.

The tears are from the laughter.

And her silence has a roar.

The mood was light and airy.

All smiles seemed engrained.

They begged, “Stay in the moment.”

And yet, someone still complained.

No banquet halls were empty.

All musicians danced and played.

The bankers were all giving loans.

And the priests and wisemen prayed.

All pets were housed and fluffy.

All disease they found the cure.

The activists raised concerns.

To what? No one was sure.

I know it never happened.

I know it might sound rude.

But I have heard with mine own eyes.

People who complain about free food.

Sleet crackles down upon the windshield. One degree to cold for rain. Blew the stop sign with a yield. Thought of you and back again.

It’s 3a.m. and black as Tuesday. They don’t have a cure for this. The accusations of a rude way. Where truth and lies could coexist.

The abyss appeared in all her glory. Speaks so sweet and knows your name. Are many ways to tell a story… Just one plot, it’s all the same.

All as pretty as a picture. All as calm and coasts are clear. They are looking for the sick cure. There’s not something like that here.

You are gone, and that’s the good news. Made it home, safe once more. The sleet is warm in pale blue hues. I will leave that at the door.

All are pretty as a picture. All are calm, and coasts are clear. All are looking for the sick cure. There is nothing like that here.

My coffee was exotic.

The cream was thick and chill.

I was feeling down like burnt malaise.

But for that, they had a pill.

The model came from Instagram.

So hot, it seemed like crime.

Necks all snapped, and heartbeats capped.

Traffic halted on a dime.

There was liquor and a base beat.

And the rest, I’m not so sure.

There was lust and fussed and upper crust.

And my intentions less than pure.

All

3 years ago… I had just told her that I was no longer the most beautiful man in the world. That I had transcended beyond beauty.

Dennis Mantin

I am reading again… Savage Art, a biography about Jim Thompson, the author of The Killer Inside Me & The Grifters.

Here’s a quote:

“There are 32 ways to tell a story, and I’ve used them all. There’s only one plot. Things are not as they seem.”

Brilliant Mr Thompson!

It started out as leisure.

Just a story with a name.

Just a dirty little poem.

With no guilt that wasn’t shame.

Then there was the paintings.

Looked like something maybe art.

Then a thought became a film.

Just no stopping once we start.

Was a murmur from a choir.

And a voice that rattled hymn.

From a note that just got higher.

In a light that knew no dim.

In the moments that were awkward.

I learned to listen and looked to see.

Saw the living and breathed spirits.

You can’t guess which one is free.

Marcus wrote, ‘When you arise in the morning think of what a precious privilege it is to be alive-to breathe, to think, to enjoy and to love. ‘

Now there’s a meditation.

It might be important to note that Mr Aurelius was the last of what was considered to be in Rome…

‘The 5 Good Emporers. ‘ A period of about 200 years that ended in 180 A.D.

Marcus was also a Stoic Philosopher.

Someone, not me said “No one is hated more than he who tells the truth.”

I have always called people on their bullshit, which means: I Am Difficult.

I think this part of my life is over because I don’t really care anymore who believes what.

I am now entering a new phase of silence and solitude. These are early days and I suspect there will be growing pains.