Monthly Archives: September 2023

I had punished myself this morning as I often do. Three times per week my twitching skin matched the uncertain wishes of the early, purple sky. No longer was my stock beholden to the chipped clanging of the heavy dumbbells. I preferred straps and handled bands to the flecked iron that pledged itself to my sticky face. The harder I pulled or the longer I pushed, the elastic resistance grew more taught, matching the constrictions of every muscle that was up for promotion or renewal. I had no idea why the cause was so dear, most fanatics never do. I felt ill and gullible during and after every exercise–that I was also becoming terrified as I mentally prepped my body on its day of rest, made me a humbled, amateur fellow. There was no need to lie to the self-appointed council, even if the folly was benign or accidental, I always knew that eventually the incarceration would be over and the equipment would once again be stowed from sound philosophy and redundant sight. Upon completion, I promised to retaliate inside the living and make peace with an affable, well-earned social position. Not amongst the leafy people, but with the experiences that they oozed. There was a rule that I tried my best to adhere to; no passing would be repeated unless all previous novelties had been properly seen off–or ascribed as regretful or distrait. Today, I was heading out the front door. The backyard fashioned paths lingering amidst the overgrown hedges and burned out trees. But, I had promised my waffling morale that I needed to do a better job of being seen. I had never been married, which meant that I was morally vigilant in not having any children. I was no role model, my beliefs had been supplanted by urges from time to time. The inner slave was an exceptional litigator even though the proper jury often left him unsatisfied and feeling betrayed. The neighbors were much fewer than had been anticipated. Many homes had been shuttered. Those windows barricaded by splintered, knotted wood were sliding towards the impenitent jaws of the unkind, open market, while those residences that reflected a piercing, metallic light, urged the Yankees to return to the north to scheme. Their foreign payoffs would take place on the golf course or at a broadway play. I had crested the first speed bump and noticed the rooftop of the cabana that accompanied the community pool. From this vantage point, the amenities always looked their best. I kept that image as I lowered my head and powered on- past the flattened toads and severed curly tails, eventually, I was overwhelmed by the fumes of chemicals and the sputtering of the overworked filtration machine. Both were conceded as a joint appellation. More technical information was required for my restraint to demonstrate a proper snub. Thankfully, the outside breeze picked up and blew the humidity elsewhere. I was not sure of the exact location, there was so much new construction closing in from all directions, the air often resembled the fumblesome route that a poorly tied shoelace would be inclined to take. That was how my doubts processed the lack of a solid, visible ceiling. But in reality, my home had far too often emerged as the victor, usually by count out or submission. Now I was prepared to shake lose my anchored feet. As I continued on, I realized that my resilience did not need to be proven to exist, futility was an aggregate of being “dubiously possible”. I had family that lived just across the boundary street. There was a hot beer and a cold steak waiting. I considered looking back, yet did it really matter if the stove was still on or the door had been left unlocked? The temple-and all of its ashes and riches were fully mobile. Even if walls were implored to swaddle my brooding, my heels and the outline of my sculpted back afforded me the chance to remain forgetful and marginally ahead on bulleted points. I jiggled the deadbolt one last time and happily grabbed my suitcase. Free weights were not the problem–real discipline was being alone, grappling with an inadequate mystique. I was sure that the old limbs in the backyard could use a deserved break from my timely spasms. But would they go so far– as to applaud me for taking the middle seat?

I sprawled across my new diversion, a toughened, square rug that had once bravely entertained the dalliances of a venerable life. So much so, that the colors twirled away in every insipid direction. The blues or blacks, depending on the amount of remaining light or the observer’s level of self-absorption, were either heading towards the wall, at which the rusty past was purposely staring–renouncing the reach of derivation– or debuting a kinder intention by banishing my contortions from an imperishable, blustering range. The stems and petals were nowhere near as vibrant as their outdoor relatives, I am no longer convinced that there was any real color remaining for the reconditioned prints, as they were cropped as a creamy reserve that necessitated a nudge to be curious enough to crawl. Vines could become hedges if weary. Still, in fairness, I was heavily placed on top of the designed recesses of hope. There was a faint scent left by those who were suckered in before me. Perhaps in their time, the cause was more noble, and the patterns were bright and dyed to represent a regal life whose birthright was guaranteed by full warranty. Could I be the accessory that was burnt orange and brazenly defective? Or was there no crime in planning my authority, while apologizing for momentarily going soft? I counted at least three cats and two dogs as I thought about which one was remembered as the most loyal and who was disparaged for being pretend. As for the decorum, that involved one’s choice of synonym. My auto-response presented me with “ground” and “floor”, average the two and the median preferences were accepted in most circles as interchangeable. But when objectified–as in being held–I was retained by the compressions of a rectangle, two vexing borders if ranking an intruder as defiant. Now the conjunction that personified the depth of my queries was merely a life raft that had been perforated, while being raked across the crest of a boiling dream. Inside the brilliance of the late day, chilly sun- even a few of the splashiest bracts were falling. “Ground floor” was not a prism that yielded a clever escape, above the fluffy new world, I would long be remembered as the captive prince–whose redolence the monochrome era would never believe to fade—or accept as the aspiration— the travels of a bluenose- woven amidst the bright spotted weeds —-tattooed by the archaic copper plate.