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.