Predicaments can unnerve; histrionics can amend. That is the Optique-the weight of foreshadowing impulse overturning an operatic note of sanctum -flapping haphazardly-like a deck of cards shuffled at the circular edge of a turnstile door-bent backs leaping-crispness filleted- the beige carboard pulled open and upward, while a puffy heiress works off a debt to the circus maker’s arm- past the cold lips and fluttering shawls that cede a templed vanity, plucky audibles, robbers enlightened by ransacked moons and apologetic alarms. I am short, shuffle my seeds and am kingmaker to all chords, laborers to ember and octave. Occasionally, I ask the flask why being overlooked with laughter is familial to unflattering libation-a polite, but unaged pollen swooshing amidst caverns of acidic staging, picked up by a steep scarp that flattens hairs until the sky sweeps the sand to the edge of the brick-colored stars-impasse to cigars at ribboned mast, hoisting an ashen glow of a spinning, smoky leaf – insolvent for twilight and temporal wings- luring puffs thru thicketed dew and Autumnal homerooms- a fledgling exhumed by billowing fractures of milieu and motif. I suppose the dubious procession of events-estranged and palliative- unnerved, manic tendencies opposing revelatory order-are more impactful as a raven to a riddle than the hardy buds that roll the bubbles, compliments to the outswing of a touring grave-we graze until crumpled and sore, yet hauling more freight than railways can abhor-swelling double bags or straps secured by crispy, doubled pages. In a more congruent passageway, my reclaimed honor scurries out past the chalky blue waters that line the boardy shores-soggy cupboards of posture and peace- serenity deflecting detection- a rarified obedience of holiday, denying the revelry that structures a spiritual softening-backing away from a matron ruler that carries the cup with sour taste. The differing of degrees- gradually chilled and darkening green- a mattress of bubbles breeching the twisting glare-where the once fluorescent hinges that were now pale and rudderless wait for cover and color, leaving the midnight offering full and the slippery handles ornamental- a high curtain blocking the cane from leading a reading without the spittle to spare. And then you were running, not for candidacy but for conscriptive art-a muted vine touched up by a swirling arc. I, flip-flopping the orders of operation- who was the beneficiary of a pool overflowing- an executive that donates a log or a beggar who lends the spark? Still, blackened rhymes steer a destiny, compulsively changing outfits per staticky charge-symbolic of indirect invitation, all shares recounting the honest details of interest passing over – longing for acceptance consoles convenience, as solace celebrates the lout. To a catch, humanity was the exception-yellow eyed and thrashing-overplaying the laughter that binds opening pleasantries to the crumbs of the fifth course, but yet, the strong right angles of wrist to elbow, bicep to upper arm-never drooped or never raised. I bet you never cashed the credits for that run. Quite the feat, backing the street, cotton swabs to pad the misses, preachers raffling the parlent hisses, pinhole mirrors forcing rushing headlights to stand down, late night feedings and eclectic vagrancies, warped palms reaching far beyond what my tribe had pledged, and what the Taurus had fetched by way of bribery-shined apples covering cloudy tears, early orientation at the ethereal emporium. Equitable charts, equal parts, liturgy flavoring sorrows with an unstirred swath of credible guilt and humorous shame. But at least my blame plucked the frosting from the waves, driving foam further and further out to sea, without the contrast, yellow would never need me- the floating pull was stoic, while underwater weeds can follow orders to empathize, their sway is a current’s reward for being unapologetic-if only the spineless were as latent as the backstop- as extreme heat acquiesces to enduring pressure- to a new deck’s painted smell-unpacked and uncut-and yet, the tipped edge of ancestry and anecdote hopefully goes unnoticed as a plentiful means concedes to a singular end and lonely tell. In those moments, the sun saves its most challenging questions for the capricious who sip their coffee far away from the dress socks climbing the backroom stalls. Are you amicable to wordplay dressed down as a series of suited coincidences- innocence as a habit-a busted, chubby king, innocence as a nickname- a shortened whisker found inside the melting cubes of a root beer lemonade? In the shade there are only interchangeable marks for me and you-the lore balances the hymns-as installed as a dry horizon pressed into action on a gambler’s tilting ship- a dismissal- an intervention-the parceling terms of prejudice- drying off in a fitting room where nothing fits, but the hanger warms by prodding the hems. The piped gems never fold with full conviction, nor curse the first row of pews for bumpy luck. If you listen closely, the rhythmic scheme is closer than what the whispers sell to stay. Maybe you will never need to anchor the entire, privileged burdon, still no matter the course of last resort, nothing will ever be explained as accidental retort, but if you promise to dip your toes, uncurled from time to time, patience is the opportunity to partner and re-raise. Without the upward draft, consternation is merely an entryway amongst the nerviest of playwrights -a clown’s limerence- a paradigm easily reshuffled- invisible without the regret of conscience-the aversion to an ode that makes amends.

Another year, another adopted bottom-another ledge fluffed lower on the stairs. I am now but three rungs from announcing the curtains level, the second side of a coin staying on, past the jittery doorbells and the streetlights bleating yellow. Even if reflective candor was eloquently tapered, make that delicately hemmed, perched at the very top of a winding case, balancing the venerable and the babied-I would still seek guidance for revising all idioms-hounded by mounting time and masquerading drivel-parried guise, cratering bloom, serenades to splay. In a better way, the beginning is continuity lead astray, and the middle is a parlance to the floating uniformity of reason-as the bulky courtship stirred by chilled hands and a leapfrogging payoff of referral and reprieve fidgets in the finality of its milky wake. If avarice is the most rigid of riders, embedded within the radical directives of a natural order-culling the sanguine and the shiny-shall we abolish a bruising kindness that tables the indulgence of pursuit with a wine induced malaise? This census of elastic style, sense of vibrant lucidity suits me just fine. Unshackled levers turn the same outcomes as extra time, to the sudden, cutting points- bubbled effigy is a cumbersome waste- you would not want to pay rent for the skylight no matter how many rays of brightness the dollars filter in. This fifteen, this birthday, is a series of aqua flashes, a strobe effect of focused thoughts, well-trained problems, negligent possibilities, rewound solutions and then eventually, puree in a silver cup. By all accruals, every day is a staggered year, full of festering and festivity, if you know just where to look. To impart a hint, there is nothing to be found other than fumes and dead trees amidst a storyboard or typed letters to a pal who amends his friends. Does one leaf wonder if a new sapling makes their field an orphanage? Does the crow who finds a crumb on the beak of the sparrow call on the lizard to explain the taste? True, the stepped carpet that hides the scowl from the wooden planks is more than just casually compliant, after all, slivers are hardly a motivator for the recruitment of fustian disciples. The woman next door is placing her golf clubs into the trunk of her car, despite the wrappings of my jovial interference, it will never be more than 1pm on a Wednesday, we all grow together by way of the next open step-or if you escape the wake of unity and device….a toast to the horse who races the hay.

As commander of the Lemonface Brigade, I sour upon discord that lends itself to daring raids and unnecessary sackings. Misty clouds drip sunspots straddling the upward pitch of old bones and neck strains – retribution is a shallowing actor. Rolling over is deemed an expanse of imperialistic aggression, like rubbing a tuning fork against the soft beard of the Shepard-sullen profession-in hidden fatigues or fatigued from being hidden. To the north goes the spoils of the wallpapered stairs, to the south, there is drying copper. The yellow has a habit of jumping aboard the darkening feud, while still soaking wet, allying within the suds of the orange lather. The bongos go boom just outside the ribbons of light, I must tread lightly if I am to catch them-my subjects are known to become abhorrently pleasant for far less-shiny burials in the roots of blooming ginger.

July 15, 2012

“Things have gotten pretty interesting. Almost immediately after my last post, the sun disappeared into the darkness of an afternoon thunderstorm. To be clear, there is nothing that I hate more than a thunderstorm. Well, except for a human that will not give me treats when I ask for them, but that’s irrelevant at the present time. Before the weather change, I actually had the good fortune of catching two lizards and a moth which has served as a nice pick me up. Call it 5 hour energy for cats. I was all set to retackle my cooking situation, until the first loud BOOM! Luckily, I wasn’t standing near the stove or else I may have frightfully jumped into the vat of boiling water. As it was, I had just entered the friendly confines of my litter box for a quick session of relief and relaxation.  To all of the humans out there don’t even think about raising your nose at this ad mission. I have witnessed many a human houseguest does the exact same thing after a large meal or a tough day of work. Maybe that’s why in some circles the bathroom is referred to as the office. But before I get too graphic, I think I should return to the topic of today’s events. As I was saying, I was in the litterbox when I heard the first of what was to be many loud crashes. After the first loud noise, I did what any, intelligent small animal would do…..I freaked out. I tore out of the litter box before I was even finished with my “relaxation” if you get my drift. Normally, I would feel bad about the stinky mess that I tracked throughout the house. But that’s what Ted gets for leaving me alone to deal with the harshness of nature’s elements. I guess I will just add that to the list of things that I will be blaming on the neighbor boy. You know what they say, payback is a bitch. So far, he is also responsible for the destruction of a toilet paper roll, chewed up blinds and several severed lizard heads. Maybe I’m pushing it a bit. Anyway, I found refuge in a large walk-in closet in between a rack of smelly shoes and a messy pile of dirty gym shorts. It may not be pleasant, but at least it feels secure.  Although, I do wish there were a few windows in here. That way, the bright flash of lightening would give me a few seconds to prepare for the impending, loud thunder. Instead, I am left cringing with uncomfortable anticipation as I await the next crash. After a couple of quiet minutes, I did manage to bravely venture back into the living room, puffing out my chest to proclaim victory over the evil that had interrupted my wonderful afternoon. But a few more explosions saw me relinquish my throne as King Glen, conqueror of the skies. Defeated, I beat a hasty retreat for the closet, determined to hunker down until I was positive that the storm had passed. I may be here for a while, but I refuse to give Mother Nature another easy victory. I will use this time wisely to reformulate my strategy, so that the next time I will be ready for her treachery. I may have lost the battle, but this war is far from over.”
 

In perfect thought, only temptation flatters the olive branches. Effigy is not an overwhelming favorite when it comes to novelty and grace. What happens if you grab the wrong pith of vinegar? The salt instead of sugar? At least a headstone calls to the heat that it can measure- only time can holdout against the anchor and its wage. We all lose perspective-compulsively- from loopy ideas to taught structure, just as morbidity is fur against the face, scheduled shrapnel in the wind. Polite evasion is throttling back your rights, and ceding receipts to the wish that steals the stillness …like perfume in an alleyway…breadcrumbs are known to be pretend…

July 14, 2012

“But enough about that. It’s time to test my ability to learn. As you are well aware, I have spent the last few weeks scouring the internet for all things pertaining to food preparation.
During this time, I have learned how to filet a fish, sauté a chicken and grill a steak. And while these would all be important if I was planning to open a restaurant, they do me little good.

My needs are much simpler and more immediate. Ted is gone and I need to find a way to feed myself. Period, end of story.  Before everyone is up in arms and decides to call the humane society, please know that Ted did leave several bags of dry food and a few cans of tuna for the next store neighbor to prepare. Sounds good on paper, but if you knew the next store neighbor you wouldn’t have much confidence in me getting many meals. No, he’s not some sort of an irresponsible halfwit or a heartless ass. He’s an eight-year-old kid. That’s right. Ted has left my fate in the hands of someone who can barely dress himself and who’s favorite hobby is picking his nose. Knowing Ted and how he operates, one can conclude that this had to be a cost cutting move. What eight-year-old is going to understand the concept of fair price? Hell, give him anything shiny and he will run around in circles and jump up and down. Hmmmmmm… kind of like a dog.  Wait a tick….I think I may be on to something, but I better save that correlation for a later blog post. For now, it is paramount that I learn my way around the kitchen.  I did some solid reconnaissance last night during the few hours that I let Ted sleep. Due to the nature of my mission, I only woke Ted up at 2:45, 4:15 and 6:25 for several brief snack breaks. Don’t judge, exploring is hard work and damn near impossible on an empty stomach! Luckily, I was able to ascertain the location of several key cooking utensils including two large wooden serving spoons, a small paper plate and most importantly a medium sized pot. Being that this is my first attempt at cooking, I decided to refrain from using any cutlery or fine china. While this limits what I can prepare, I’m fairly certain that it will save me the indignity of getting grounded for the gazillioneth time this month. The second part of last night’s adventure left me a little concerned. Both the refrigerator and pantry are scarcely stocked. I know that Ted’s leaving definitely affected his trip to the supermarket last week, but I could not have anticipated the lack of ingredients that I would be working with. While I am extremely confident in my newfound culinary skills, I am going to have to be more MacGuver than Betty Crocker if I am going to produce anything that resembles a satisfactory meal. So far, my only assets are one block of cheddar cheese, two slices of turkey, a half-eaten container of spam and one ziplocked bag of 4-day old Raman noodles. I have to admit it’s difficult to conceal my disappointment. After learning about a myriad of wonderful recipes, I had really hoped that my first homemade meal would be an undisputed success.” But with MacCauley Culkin responsible for my care, I guess I will have to make do. Before I get to work, maybe now is a good time to see if anyone out there in the OAC has any suggestions or better yet any safety tips. This will also be my first attempt working with electricity. So keep your paws crossed that I make it out of this unscathed.” Until next time……….

…in the cold hours of the pitched morning, adjoined by seamless posturing and horizontal allusions, a pleasant stiffness is already harboring incentives that are gaudy and wonderful in appearance-but truncated by an approaching Church’s bell- the intrigue of timbre and performance, composition decoded with a cipher that perpetually unearths cancellation and encourages residence, fronted by the ringer with no allegory to quell. Still, the tired leap is not enough to siphon a pillared escort into the soft halls of a reprimand, beyond the quiet black pages that keep our clouded pleasures tucked in, a tossing clemency, that used to be a subtle unevenness, is as close as we can get to returning the mislaid earnings of the caretaker- recreant of the acreage and the breeze-whirling sentiments and unripe innocence-wet paws, sticky trapeze. Our suspicions are circling, but the terrain is varied, and we cannot seem to make up the bumpiness of a staggered start. By the time one clears the low-bar, content with a heartbeat and a fleeing breath, uncovering reasons as to why all constructed wishes are immediately banished and petulantly waiting on the other side of the moon, the receptors have inched closer to the doldrums of wavy asphalt and the ospreys that feast with the priests at high noon. To you, I gift my sincere retraction of a proclaimed harvest, arousal in the red, sessions that spread, cautions that ignore your reasoning and lead you once again back to bed-, where similar protocols may for once grant a leap frogged rank and file-a pile, a style- the flexibility that comes from incoherent intervals and manicured plodding-subliminal tenderizing-that at the very least, needs to reconciled and reread.

July 7, 2012

“So today is the big day. Ted packed up the last of his suitcases and scampered out the door without even a hug to say goodbye. It’s just as well. If he knew what I was planning
he would do a lot more than just withhold affection. Then again, maybe he did know and this was a preemptive way of saying that he did not approve or that
he would deal with me when he got home.  But that’s Ted in a nutshell. Always pushing things off. It’s why I rarely get disciplined for knocking over flower vases or pulverizing unattended  treat bags.
He just cannot bring himself to deal with anything. If he did, he probably would have been married by now or running some prestigious company.  Instead, he is raising a
disobedient cat and managing an decrepit apartment complex.  God love him.”
 

Popularity is an accurately flighted horseshoe that upon its first steps on land tumbles horribly to the right. It was not down to luck, for you chose to keep your throwing elbow locked. I am not speaking of survival or any necessities that a shiny coin or crisp greenback can bring, but rather the imperialism that plants its loud flag upon the wetlands of the brain. The cloth is of poor quality, yet emotionally retardant and colored by schemes that promote suspicion and ecological self-blame. And we should all roll over, once a day, not stopping sorely upon compressed shoulders or twisting spines. Closet hallways are low on morale and stimulated seeding, but cool to the touch of the mirrored doors and curiously placed air vents–no sharing with the rest of the house, or offering encouragement to the furry spores that toe the seams of forgotten coats and ill-fitted jeans. That there is a beach town, separated by stretches of unmanned roadways, expressionist color pops and a sky that is so stretched that its sloping, misshaped constellations remind you not to cave to your side once again-your itch is avoidance of a colder, foamier bed of rocks and chest high waves. The friends I never had, but knew quite well fill the streets with shopping carts and rolled stop signs enroute to an already started school play. Once, we shook hands when I moved to the back of the cafeteria, while the girls offered up selective hugs and a suddenly empty seat. And yet, my eyes have adopted a benevolent sense of acrimony, and the carpet is wiry and poking me with thorny pieces of dried food-a neurotic encouragement for lucidity that is as rigged as it effete. The jostling of contemplation has a way of offering subservience, before making you wildly uncomfortable as your forgetful experiences and current frustrations suggest a later try, before suddenly trying again–invisible nudges tend to pool, like browned leaves, graciously applauding floating, sealed colors, before swirling to the bottom of a lustful stream. In this area code, I am down at the shore, pasty white with my board, and seasons to go before the arrival of one wave, my wonderment sports wet suits, strategic take off points and always blow-dried hair. Yet, often times, the occupiers cruise the coast, never looking at anything but the flashing buttons of their phone-dropped popsicles in arrears…ill-timed, but deservedly allocated, trapped by self-appointed projections and twisted metal frames where the feet meet the seat. I get beeps that drip too, every browsed site offers a retrospective where the missteps and bypassed arrangements, can be solved with nervy dedication and shifted allegory. Actually, the envelop that is the dichotomy in which I hope to live, is wedged both inside and outside of the closet door. The next reunion offers five more years to become practical and understood. In those halls, the fuzz will be supplanted by shiny marble and the grounds will be as barren as the desert that separates memories and friends, neither of which have been healthy enough to grow or lift the stars. Sure, more doubts will come with more flags to plant, but does anyone really avoid a handshake? Abundance cannot shy away from the absurdity of outcome which weighs down the irons of ideology, keeping the pomp from tip toeing beyond the shore, even recoiling in rejection forces the drift of the elbow to amend. In the shadows of one’s entirety, the infancy assembles for all contempt that has passed….a golden serenade is merely light that has not yet realized that perception is a dead end.

I have been known to nod off during work disputes or cracked water lines. I once saw nine stiches close a head wound that may have fulfilled the final sentence in the book of Revelations, “the first plague will commence with a stubborn freezer door and the edgy idealism of a falling ice tray.” And they say that all pets will go to Heaven, perhaps the humans will live eternity *protected* by collars and leashes. Sometimes, I groom so much that recent meals become warmer than the duped permission of any jacket, fabled constancy and an overwhelming smell- massaging many tired rooms and scolding the off-limit territories, but most importantly, a competing bristling feather under the nose, an allergy that reminds me to guard my pelt and eat again. Let us be proud of the clumps of posturing fur that smooth out jagged, knee scuffing corners and level off dust and bits of clay-sure the litterbox could be neater, but America’s past time is my appearance and less likely to stain or cost you money over missed signs and broken up double plays. The coin purse is a hard pass, the onus is on the purchaser to defend printed flowers and scratched gold, even the tiny latch fastens within the authority of a dropped pillow instead of the flooded arrival of the headliner, in this case a definitive, auditory-lit snap. I just knew that I would spend less time tying on the shiny hook than the cold, dark sinker-confected by a perfectly round pour, baked in by a cold war aftertaste that is far more bitter when fired by powder charged tongue. Such a sad world, the carefully crafted shine that ensnares the catch, deserving of glory and praise, but far too sharp for a smooch to avoid a permanent stutter. The neighbor does not ask for my opinion, she is small, timid and vapid, in other words, she is all the same, we are here to steal your glances, high pitched baby calls do little to peak our interests or break away from mustard evoking portals-every adventure is a consumption for entitlement levelled off from plummeting trade. Accountability is contempt in which every keystroke is the difference between a cheered tyrant and a catalyst for rationalized disease. Throw the stones and draw the gawkers in with your glass-pierced eyelids-if you have looked closely over the years, you will note that the starting value, is barely higher than a multiple of one-but my art needs only one attempt to keep pace with the steam from a southern storm and a melting, moonlit street. A lisp darting through shrapnel, now that is a *bluew badth of courath* and the critic’s quandary of freewill.

500 words and what a goal that is. Symbols, characters and nauseum, requirements are as insignificant as a single toenail that dredges the ocean’s floor, in less than six inches of a salt- soaked schism-staggering sick or jellied flotation. Deviants and deviations are not hatched of a purchased calm beyond the legalities of the highest appeal-veredus may extract the final roll of musty, green furred change, while only being entitled to a speed freak who is pumped deeply by oats and hay. The town’s planning and zoning board is willing to plant pylons and probity and yet that terror metastasizes in balance and stillness. Just a few more votes, and we will pay to arch those toes-crabs and shells want to live amongst low crime and good schools, while the sand turns to cool mush to keep from being brushed aside-one settling swirl-digest the quiet relish that I ate. Personally, I find orange to be threatening and a nylon circle is the precursor to false bravado and the end of your life, and strife too-push off that sales deadline and relish the role of a tax cheat, the hydrangeas look best in oxygen depleted blue and the dancing moss is as wispy as the neck that guides the stones and shine that hula hoops the allusivity of a challenged, red-haired bequest-hair dye is an alleged game changer, when lathered with translucent waves and yellow meadows that watered eyes before rolling rocks and glaciers exercised the first rounds of eminent domain. In kindred depths that were just lethargic enough to promote strained subtraction by an adventitious rebuttal, the survivor relates unrest to double barrels, melted down to terminal smiles, left unguarded for his race is being torn down from the horse that followed the wrong commander to the front of the school. Sure, you can look around, the floor settles with less interruption, and the tiny fish nibble at the ankles, for they know that none of us are really alive. Skin is warm chocolate and a cold brew, sweet and buzzing, traveling fast to the next school of explorers that consider drifting still, to be the very definition of being humble and brave-putting in just enough work to solicit a blind date from a friend who is trending towards becoming a darting acquaintance thanks to your bitter girlfriend and the vastness of a crowded mall, but at least she keeps dirtying the sheets. Thanks to the restless legs, we are back underneath the covers, where we are seen, but there is no suspense in waiting to address how the motions come to play out. Trends will yield an empathy that lowers the expectations of the gunwale, forwarded by the constellations on a crisp, blue night, but first, make sure your updated card is on file. And then the Renaissance came, 463, 464, a steady shit can certainly entertain and learn to swim, I miss the toxicity that a detached nail can hang, let’s argue in the morning, left rear rudder, what you have not yet stolen, is ready to run aground. 504? Remind me to never try again.

Perry shifted quietly, when beckoned by the receptionist to follow her perfume to the conference room. It was only 8:40 am on the 8th of November, 2022. His appointment was not for another 10 minutes, which had left him with the feeling of being unprepared, and his stomach bloated and queasy. Perry was 6’4 and weighed well over 300 lbs, and when he was nervous, he had a tendency to waddle, to slink even, which often resulted in floors being nicked and walls being scuffed. Sam Prankman-Freed awaited around the corner. He had been up for days and his sunken eyes and unkempt hair reflected a man who was lagging behind the most updated version of reality. FTWrex had been a beam of light returning to the stars and now it was a superhero falling, without the aid of wings or a cape. In the conference room was a microphone and a top hat. Perry entered alone and instinctively nudged the door shut. He was not used to an audience, and the closed confines gave him just enough courage to clear his throat and begin to wail-high pitched and shrill. Sam edged towards the microphone, but both knew it was not needed. Lowering his voice until the sounds were pained and guttural, Sam grabbed Perry and they wrapped their bodies together, their blending serenade propelling their collective feet and arms like a bright-eyed child emptying water from their small, plastic pale. They quickstepped, then they tapped and finally foxtrotted from the windows, around the table, gliding above the leather tops of the chairs. And then the door crashed open, swinging so hard, the hinges pulled halfway from the frame. A voice bellowed, “you had your five minutes.” Sam stood still and held out his wrists until the man entered, picked up his hat, and inside the fading crescendo, Sam was cuffed. The ingenuity of his scheme had not lent itself to the freedoms of what maturity had sought. Money, no matter how it was earned, did not equate to the favored stage of one’s being. For Sam, the best of him would forever remain in the past, and on the rare occasion that its shine was passing close, the source’s burst was always fleeting. Sam walked quietly with the stuffed green shell under his right arm and hoped that arguments for incarcerating his childhood would be proven baseless, and that in 25 years, Perry would be waiting, ready to teach him to waltz.

On the television, men on bikes, some looking relaxed some appealing the exhaustion. Outside, men on machines cutting grass, shaving wooden chips. Waves of sweat staining both screens, the ones made in Korea and the ones built in the USA. I acknowledge that there are other masquerades in the world, but I enjoy the hips that mate to what I am describing. People come and go, first attracted to my charms and then gutted by the pace of my oscillating demeanor. I make jokes about scenarios that yield tragedies befitting the most privileged of human lackies, and then I snap at my real time counterparts that interject their own style of dispensers-trash bags can wear lemon fragrance as well as the heedless Quinceanera, allergic to the bouquet – I find all contributions to be childlike-patches of carpet that have been trampled-choose your own positioning-popularity triumphed by weight and distracted by debris-looking up-a calculated lineup or dumb luck with who is in charge of the tracking-the backing feels obesity from all points of contact and the generic fibers become a refuse for hardened gum, wet leaves and a blend of organic and synthetic droppings-more cabbage anyone? You cannot blame me, I always clean my feet and I have never taken up smoking. Maybe the men beaming in from thousands of miles away and their closeup kin should consider taking the odd drag, their health is already being compromised for purported glory and graded task. Personally, I lean towards those who clear the snail’s path as opposed to those who ride in ascending circles, rewarded with not having to pedal on the way back down. Still, some are unable to hold on and give up as the road disappears into the clouds, equaled by the anguish of the men who are unable to protect their eyes from the teamwork of the steel and leafy blades. I confess that today is slim pickings for things to observe and decisions to address, but it is reflective of what the day can bring, in the human world, mountains and fields are the stars, but ultimately never get their way-praise is a sucker for interference. Is there an alternative, you ask? Of course, other channels yield combatants clubbing a ball and other rooms highlight a man hammering nails into a roof. I lick the wooden posts that adorn the stairway, as I ascend and descend, at a comfortable pace, sometimes standing still, sometimes transporting expired gravy. Perhaps, I could teach the nail to duck and the mower to power itself. Would that bring my friend back, focusing on the shaded pathway from the bedroom, and forgetful of the harshness of our previous talk? There is yelling outside and screaming from a crash, where blood encompasses the entire broadcast scene. I am not impressed, maybe I need to be, for beyond my intake and the depths of my assessment, I could use some company, humanity inspires healthy, positive dialogue, until the greased chain is equally celebrated and the worker turns to the absurdity of the pool skimmer-stealing the spotlight is another way of absolving an intervention-puff, puff, lifted veils- patterns underrun.