Dig your fingers into the sides of your front two teeth and push them together…if you are lucky they will click…either way…stare at what might be the sound, and wonder if everything is down to beginners luck or well-constructed fate.

It is always early. And one hand moves, until it is another’s turn to move and then they both move, then it is another’s turn to move and then all three move. And the first hand continues until the companion returns and then they both carry on until they are once again made whole. And then the first hand speeds along, the outsider feels rejected, the adjudicator grows hoarse. And then the first hand disappears, the vindicated ignores, the serpent rehashes. For Heaven is never late.

I have long tried to deceive myself to avoid becoming inconclusive. My only metaphor is a strainer….and all that passes thru becomes travelers and guests. They are many and I am not offended. For those who are not up to inspection or refuse the cue to pass, I dream about and take great pleasure in being a part of their narrow recital. Of course the story is never complete, and when I awake, in my paws, I only find the crumbs. I am happy that soon all I can imagine will be polished and the binate analogy of privilege will find a way to carry on. Directly speaking, my lamentations are ridiculous, but undulating thought is as gratifying an excuse for being a babbler, as licking my toes keeps me from being forced to talk or prancing a top a sharpened introduction to a fib.

There is God and there is pain…somewhere in between there is a can opener.

Implication…that is a drizzling refrain best left in the company of the impervious lid. Surprised at the perspective? Nod your head along with the obligatory tune. For now, I am perfectly chosen to groom the grass and calibrate the compass. Don’t blink, or else you might miss Atlas taking a break. Neither of us are strong enough without the partnering weight. Living without the excuse of a reason or unbalanced without the aid of the crutch. Free to follow or be unveiled. Maybe…simply to be read again. Turning the hand with all your might…could the impasse yield a new figure? Assuming all that can now compel, can also now conclude. The proof eschews the lever.

In a world with no identities or beliefs, there are words and there are spaces. They have only the loosest of associations, no more so than a family occupying a table in a diner and an off course traveler pacing the men’s room in hopes of staying awake. Is orange a delicacy that should be celebrated or should the rules for using the facilities be rearranged?