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.

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.

I was doing nothing one day, and wondered what defines accomplishment. Is it the doing or is it the nothing? I have many thoughts that are as impressive as they are profound. In the alphabet, the letter C is a neighbor to the letter D. In my head, I am so clever, that on occasion, I trespass into the flower bed of being devious. Is that travel or is a destination? Perhaps, I am a carrier, spreading the cheer of the unholy. The proprietor is not as profound, and is not up for debate or even apologies. The wired mesh is a clear indicator of his feelings on the matter, but then again, there are gaps in the boundaries, so is it of faulty construct or an arrogance in the assumptive message? There are other people on the block and there are other defects in their reasoning. The ones that have the biggest yards and most vibrant landscape are the most interesting. They offer free passage and even encourage it by distinguishing the plants with placards. As if the scientific name and the place of origin is enough to make me come back, more and more each day. Cars do slow, but they never stop on this side of the commune, it is uncomfortable for the biggest windows to be facing the street. Without protection, the homes and their grounds remain immaculate, yet the single fence detects and catches everything. One could interject that if this were a riddle the owner himself was actually the trap. However, in anger and blood, all verbal plays are buried with the dirt and the staked wood that is used to defend with more intimidation and reinforced vigor, all that is perceived as having value. I am one of the few that actually knows that sadness is not an emotion or a disease, instead it is a loophole that naturally occurs within the realm of obsession. Fourteen years ago, I was born, and the garden was as colorful as wet lights pulsating between each swipe of a wiper blade, lined with decorative stones that were not lined up to bully, but rather to be part of the parade. And now, as I give in to smaller meals and longer naps, this fence could protect any castle against even the most intensive Viking siege, but the grounds are flat and not even the weeds have enough willpower to pander for a single cracked rock or a root system that has been disturbed. And both men of the house take equal satisfaction in their neurosis, and perverse pleasures in what the eyes seek and what the actions obey. Criticisms and deflections, the most logical offspring of the neighborhood that is limited to the afforded space of the page. But if I kept at it, would I exhaust the thesaurus or the word count first? In my time left, I will never get around to making even the most basic dents in words and theories that are conjoined or secretly unresistant to meeting up and partnerships that are happy. I suppose that it is good that there is always an audience to be had, otherwise doing nothing would define accomplishment. And I would have to concede that the letter B could yield a strain of awoken thoughts that are not as clever as those that are byzantine.

Here is everything that we have agreed upon by proxy of a handplant- tagged by the immeasurable pull from the nurturing phobics who stretched out the elastic waistband for as far as a holiday dinner can lean. Choking bones and purple flesh are not to be dismissed as the framework for a biographical poem, but is the nature of the cursing as mechanical as a heated pool releasing an icy frost-dressing it up as heated steam? I too slam the table, but with a half full fist instead of the corner posting that jars the sternum from the thickening beef. Slippery words were lobbed, not out of desperate politeness but rather of abrasive relief. And then dessert was served, and we all ate with urgency, for some it was uncomfortable, for me I imagined that my whispers were the breeze hopping along the driveway that leads towards the stained leaves of a shadowy street. The family room would eventually yield a nervous chance to reconcile with what I had feared for far too long, as a benefactor who had reached down to fold a sibling’s napkin-nixed by a silver gleam. I was a homegrown adversary of a pendulum that swung back and forth between poisoned love and reassuring contempt. Still, dark paths eventually lead to well-lit highways that vanquished all but wasted time. Pills and chats helped-as a hand holding a swinging door, feeling as if we were finally civilized only to be rammed by a cart that dirty looks suggested must have acted on its own-for accountability finds fingers stretching to avoid a cold sweat, or worse yet, confidence overruled- the lap holds many secrets-none of which it is designed to keep. Suddenly the scales on the forehead and the strands of falling hair are beyond the farthest reaches of being plural. Most certainly, I can accept an aching forearm and the twisting burn that swims with the white fluffiness and the setting colors of the rushing blood. On the couch, I am pulled back to the shower and the doorbell, perhaps the bottle of wine was more than capable of standing up on its own receipt. The lonely highway is never offended by the turnaround, self-preservation is understood as silence that is indiscreet.

I can still remember the pinecone and the pine box. The fairied gift or my chipped toys, neither made an impression on the lots we were drawn. It was daytime, but the currents in the new address were cold, unapprised of the shiny, jagged keys that sifted ownership from the compulsions that had defiantly outwaited the beldam. I often assigned feminine qualities to my bubble when the pressure could no longer cushion the upcoming applause or expand upon the errors that restarted the dotting of the pen. In the unprepared darkness, the mint covered scent squirmed its way inside the lemon brown shade, dull and lethargic as if trapped at the bottom of an edgeless pool-untreated for lime and algae. My skin can be just as casual as my nostrils when it comes to trading access for curiosity. As I stumbled into the assigned bedroom, what I was breathing in became the basis for certain decisions that would offer to flay and to glean-finger tipped residuals and unsharpened spears of syntax. To this day, I am not sure where I fall on the spectrum- somewhere between choices and whims–maybe even schemes. Eventually, the preamble warms, and lays down its settlement on the shapeless undersides of the adapting hymn. At dawn, inevitability takes up a high position despite the grievances of the hardened bracts and the latch of the eternal lid-or perhaps it’s the orphaned thoughts that are most local-if my head is indeed cocked-then let the lethargic wait for an unabridged crossing. With each new dilation, the pablum readies itself as a sheet that cannot keep your illusions from absconding and at the same time, cover the refractions at the edge of the bed. Graciously, I request a parlay with the woodsman, he already houses my remains, so perhaps he will do me the courtesy of resting easy when I feel the need for a final howl–thrown towards the dodging of the adversary-or a nod for the old home–of an even better friend.

I sleep more, but enjoy the recovery far less than when I was rudderless and vitiated. For my contemporaries, there is so much left to overlook as fading, while taking for granted the slowing fondness for superlatives. The rut grows arms and legs-and even teeth- depending upon the naiveties of the clingy operative. I wonder if I stare long enough at the impeding glass, will it too peel aside, puzzled that I was resistant to being lead to where the skinsuits were being fashioned? Outside, there would be more distractions than the occasional nail that was stuck in the carpet. Not those splayed from metal or tin, but the curved, hollowed edges that I would need should I choose to cross the rusty grooves of an osculating track. There was also a flapping feather that had to have come from the tiniest of birds-the soft whites would have been well-conditioned for flight, should the pen-like shaft ever break free of the wired mesh that keeps the rotted wooden fence from giving way. But it was not a working fence, so naturally, patterned hexagons were there to rub the salt in-flicking the flimsiest roots of my concentration for play. The litterbox always smelled more acidic, escalating- the longer that the distorted leaves below were able to hold past injuries as culpable, intertwined in a maddening ballet. Turning sideways does lure bounding pods of light, I assumed that both of us entities had been deemed a surplus to the circling of an acceptable dissertation. I am often unsure of what I am writing, but the mystery of confession leaves me temporarily satisfied for trying to thank the conscriptions of my birth. In the new year, I am leaning towards the ways of a Fire Lookout. Perched high above the line of trees, for once my recurrent responsibilities and past aspirations would fit- the lesser half-tucked below the level of what would normally be deemed a failure without objection or tendered regret. There would be no mesh or carpet. Only cool wood and the occasional whistle that would salute onlookers hurriedly heading my way. I could be a great many things and the warm blotches of the sky would have no idea from where to find me. Possibility matters little, as a purpose should be calm and driven, for there are plenty of unsuspecting souls happy that the sun would still make time to include their halted or misdirected advances-bequeathing only a ceremonial bouquet. I close my tired eyes one last time and shake off the clutches of the year’s final encampment. Optimistically, I believe that Hemingway would make perfect sense, if like me- he never found the silver lining. Atop the smoke and haze, I hope to wake bemused-covered in the baptismal glow of a shrinking infant-chosen for applause and escape. Underneath the shrubbery-finds nothing remarkable to be learned-other than a troubled skeptic-tiptoeing between the resurrection of a broken leash and the welcoming home of an inconsolable mistake.

On some days, much like the present, I am the perpetrator and the victim. I can be cynical and abrupt. Much like the barrier reef, that refuses to move away from the bay. So here I sit, cut up and bruised in places most people have never been invited to visit. Kind of how toothpicks are found lying on the floor. Surely, this was not an homage to the trees that produced them. Dislodged food and clean breath are as novel as an afternoon nap on the arm of a worn out, blue chair. Very few understand the loneliness of perpetual company, and even fewer can raise a thumb in solidarity. I suspect that introversion is a genetic cruelty and at the same time, a blessed sanctuary that can mend. Even now as the argument has drifted off with the possums and the nighttime breeze, my anxiety tells me that another invitation is coming. I curl up in a ball with gratitude, thankful that by myself, I am reunited with the emptiness of my best friend.

I overheard a man complaining about toilet paper and soap dispensers. Apparently, one was down to cardboard and the other was completely empty. Thankfully, my tongue made sure that neither would ever be my issue. This man was sad, and I suspect, had always been old. He did not cry but the full-figured woman who routinely bent his ear and spent his money kept the sun below the horizon and the clouds around his neck. They choked and stifled his ability to do more than gasp and complain. That he had been gifted a place in life, generations before he was born, made me angry at times. He had no reason to incessantly moan about such insignificant mishaps, while his trivial sense of purpose sprayed from the shovel that put the cursive in the letters of his family name. It bothered me more as he laughed and smiled at inopportune times, mainly when my guardian asked for what he was owed. The cycle was always the same, no matter the era and no matter the tools, someone would eventually find themselves born into a good situation and the others were left trying to avoid filling the narrowest of slots and dampest of cracks. And now, the big woman who could have just as easily been blessed with a plunger and broom was making demands from her seat at the table. I found the cold front that was soon to be arriving quite necessary- despite my well-being feeling hopeful of ascension. I had not been out much these last few weeks and now my food dish seemed unappealing, but at least my fortune felt brave, and my experiences could be easily taught. But then again, if my shoulders had been scaled a few inches wider and my back more rigid than fluff, my kind would be ruling the edges of the countryside. Maybe then the man would have nothing to complain about. With no freedom to plant a future fortune, and no power to airbrush manners and class, the fat woman would be begging us to sit down and have a kindhearted talk-for a few dollars more, she would happily take out the trash.