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 one that mates 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.