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.