A woman appeared to the South. She had not been expected, but her presence was hardly considered rude. The woman moved so slowly that she was initially thought to be a large clump of drying seaweed, defiantly lifting in the wind, before it had begun to rot. Soon, the woman began to grow thicker, until her waddling gait demanded recognition and a courteous refrain. Truth be told, she had been on the beach almost as long as everyone else. But only I knew that. It was not the patches of sand cascading down her face that cemented that revelation. I simply understood what slumped shoulders and blinking eyes had always meant. Inevitably, there was another that came behind her, similar in appearance, but maybe a few years older. They all looked the same to me, even if life and the cost of aging could have been more genuine, or perhaps a little kinder. The first woman was now upon the lifeguard. She was struggling to get his attention. I thought about how this could go, but was not sure I was ready to make a wager. Of course, the beach would one day be besieged by perfume and pantsuits. I stepped back, appreciative for the head start. I did not wish to limp off and become irrelevant. There were still strange places I had always wanted to see.

The sand was hot, and there was little else going on at the moment, save for the occasional, apologetic wave that had once seemed forceful and abundant. From the road up above, there had been a singular coating of white foam crashing against the tips of a typecast shore. Now I wondered, had my perspective always lacked motivation? The characters were scattered at random distances from both each other and the ocean, even though they were convinced that they had been convincing while interacting. I knew that the horizon was permanently fixed, which was why the only curvatures that naturally occurred were in the middle of theatrical conversation. Someone should have told the curly haired man that his life was always being re-scaled to fit the variance of his flimsy positions. The old lifeguard was afforded that title and little else. He had done more to keep every person and every possibility away from his imagination, then he had ever protected or extracted from the sea. The others were annoying but were needed to raise my levels of intrigue to a healthier standard of satisfaction. I thought about yelling to drum up some much needed spirit, but ultimately, decided against it. Despite all of my rough drafts, in this lifetime, the Earth would always lie flat.

And iiiiiiiiii trap light beneath my paws…

And iiiiiiiiii steal life inside my skin……

And iiiiiiiiii breath shrapnel in the wind….

You whisper to my cause, blocked above the loud aplause

AND I….THINK TWICE BEFORE I WAVE

And iiiiiiii predict the loosening of the bolt….

And iiiiiiiii sew comfort on a dare

And iiiiiiiii teach infection how to care

Dangling motive down my throat, plagiarizing every note

AND I….THINK TWICE BEFORE I WAVE

And iiiiiiiii know grass is soft upon first crack

And iiiiiiiii plow underneath the throne

And iiiiiiiiii weaponize the groans

Upright it’s always black, just before the faith comes back

AND I…..THINK TWICE BEFORE I WAVE

And I resolve to make amends

And I promise to pretend

And I return what they will save

AND I….I WILL BE BRAVE

I will be brave

(truth wants urgency)

I will be brave

(truth wants urgency)

be brave

(truth wants urgency)

be brave

(truth forgets my urgency)

be brave

I will…….not……wave

In a man’s world, I walked into a diner and ordered a ham and swiss sandwich and a side salad. I unfurled the morning paper, and before I was able to find the sports section, I was already scowling at the waiter behind the counter, because I had forgotten to order a large cup of coffee and a small carton of whole milk. I was well aware that I was mixing meals and hours of the day, but I liked playing the role of the victim, no matter how strange the job or method of egotistical love. As usual, the ham was undercooked and the swiss resembled a swath of melted glue. There was never any charge nor conversation. I always left the salad alone and resisted the urge to use the bathroom. The newsprint had been perused, and was now randomly carved and strewn across the floor. I jogged to the entrance, accompanied by a series of odd looks and friendly animation…it hardly seemed convincing. No one’s life would be any richer…if they knew the start of tonight’s baseball game had been pushed back to 8.

When you told me that you had met someone, I was very happy for you. When you told me that we could no longer grow together, I was very happy for you. When you told me that I would never produce anything, I was very happy for you. When you told me that I should wither away and die, I was very happy for you. When you told me that your concept of the moment was redundantly black or white…I thought about how toxic our bed had become…and was relieved that tomorrow would never bloom.

If you do not believe that nip is omnipresent and can take on many forms…then how else do you explain the varying, impulsive absurdities of the world… that we all feel so happily compelled to simultaneously pursue?

On the patio, I found myself listening to your weather report, my pointed curiosity, accompanied by a warming cup of coffee that required the efforts of alternating hands, and a folded newspaper that nervously clung to the insides of my knees. I had used my teeth to open the sliding glass door and waddled outward, stopping beneath a rickety overhang. It was made of corrugated metal, and lately had been showing signs of mold and rot. Perhaps now there was justification for the structure to remain intact, for even decay is worthy of a host to pursue. It was 74 degrees in Florida, but it felt much warmer in the shade. It was breezy, not windy. I could tell the difference as the individual palm fronds vibrated, yet the collective of the canopy held firmly in its place. The sky was as blue as you had claimed, still the clouds routinely appeared, each time, just before my cleansing thoughts could redirect my view. As I swirled the coffee around the sides of my mouth, and contemplated the pros and cons of differing time zones, all I could taste was the creaminess of the milk. The back page of the local section was satirizing downtown development and alluding to falling water levels of a popular, neighboring sea. Eventually, my tongue grew heavy and my lips became numb. I lost my balance and tilted downward, only composing myself when my head dropped below my hips. My feet were now staggered, the right foot in front, the left slightly beyond the realm of center. I was perplexed, but thankful that their courage had halted my impending fall. Things were much different than before, as I hesitantly resumed a vertical base. The trees were dark and heavily charred, and the sky was colored brown, now stained by fragments of wandering soot. My muscles were a giant spasm, while my hands fluttered as if transfixed by the harmonies of a controlling, seasonal tune. I was gratefully awkward, with skin that was suddenly bright green. The hair that once threatened the corners of my eyes, was leafy and well kept. There was an abrasive twinge inside my throat, which was followed by the emergence of an outward, gaping hole. A single piece of bark unfurled itself, curving upward at such a quickening pace, that I almost missed the fact that I was birthing an intricate, wooden spoon. The edges of the bowl scampered along the overhang, clearing debris and scraping away grit, until the roof that I had once claimed was nothing more than fresh aromas and clean, blue air. There were still clouds, but they were no longer in control. As the temperatures found the spoon, the grains warmed and the embers began to glow. The golden rays wrapped the headlines at the bottom of the front page: In L.A., it was supposed to snow.

I have a finger up my nose and I am humming a favorite melody. Not bad for table talk… for my digits are neither long nor extended…but allegedly…stubby and fed by a dissymmetrical blade. I am unsure about the specifics…as such allegories are rarely nostril friendly…much like the reviews of my companionship. The detractors are stuffy…high pitched…and…well…irretrievably nasal. I loath all of this chatter, tied to the summit of my face. Perhaps if the octave could be lowered, the future would be more about a healthy contrast and less about the habits of the bleak. I ate all of the food, even the envelopes that you spilled on. I drank all of the water, and in my travels…even managed to moisten the dandruff in your hair. Looks like someone else…is also not so perfect. Have you heard the twang of a guitar, crying in the rain? Grouping words and reflections are becoming a banner of unintentional refrain. Yet…it is so emblematic of our pod…that I am more than willing to fetch the longest shovel before receiving payment for the metaphoric debate. I can hold a tune though, but you think everything is a purr. Is there a moral equivalent to the heretical arrogancy of a standstill? Perhaps you can just accept the inaptness of my paw… as the savior of the incongruent…or should we merely focus on unearthing a sonorous conversation…and the veracity of its airy, pointed claims?