Writing affords me the opportunity to explore the deepest caverns of the brain and blend those discoveries with my world’s current purpose, or wander off in search of future scenes. There is nothing more rewarding then tying loose words together until what you have created no longer needs you to be believed.

In the eight or so years of our relationship, I often hid the fact that I was here as an observer, and was technically not permitted to interject my thoughts or display any notable biases. Sometimes, I found it difficult to smother my varying levels of disdain. I found sanity and forgiveness inside of cupboards and underneath shelving. Contrary to the thick opinions that carved passageways throughout the first house, I was regularly amused at the results, these spectacles grew to such a continuous occurrence that I counted them as hobbies and friends. Still, there was nothing too serious to qualify as trepidant, until the time the outcome felt perpetual- an indifferent, but predictable mistake. So I hunkered down and thought about the mementos that I had left beyond the lawn . To be clear, it was my choice and I will continue to abide by that decision. The bed was never made, the bathroom was never clean and the dishes were always stored in the bottom of the sink. I was needed and that made waiting on various transmissions difficult and dull, at a bare minimum I could certainly tug the corners of the crumpled sheets. And then eventually, in a structure that had an additional floor, I was able to saunter up the stairs and rest upon a half wall, where above the floor to ceiling windows, even the setting sun bowed beneath me, I imagined I was equal to the wind. One day I was proven wrong and now I watched the tidal pool and the stump of a worn tree. The man was sitting, he looked worried, deflated even, I knew him well enough to describe his demeanor as rough. My feet felt warm and sturdy, and perhaps I could nudge him along, of course I would first suggest my perspective, I surmised this could be suitable for an audience to applaud. But what did I really know? The last time -it was off putting, and now here we were, two old friends that could no longer conjure what each sought in a mutual feeling of circumspection. So, I left him there and thumped my head. I promised to check back, and wondered if my origins were still leafy and his thoughts of me profound. I heard a branch snap to my rear and I scurried towards everything that was vast, and only wide open. There was an elevated railway bridge in the distance. Tomorrow, I would learn to swim.

I rocked back and forth upon the cylinder that was the interim summit of the large piece of driftwood. The beach was under less than a foot of water which made it that much more tragic, despite the current conditions, it had almost managed to hang on. Without a proper cushion, my tailbone infuriated my lower spine by forcing the bones to unnaturally bend. Looking once more at the beach, I supposed that everything had its season. At least the sea was clear which made the sand pink and shaded the water yellowish-brown, perhaps even golden. In the wind, I felt the weight of my feet preparing to snap the black limbs that came together forming my sturdy seat. Much like being atop an aging uncle, I hoped that I could easily be bucked if I was beginning to weigh too much. I lifted my legs and curled my kneecaps into to my stomach, stopping short enough to be able to balance a tray of food, if there had been the need to do so. The railroad tracks were still above ground, and still barely dry, but they lead towards the wet unknown, it seemed that everything was angled in that direction. No matter the symbolism, they would one day be slimy and beautifully wrapped in seaweed and other naturally occurring stages of decay. I was a few pounds over 200, in all accounts, the word physique could be used in sentences that contained my name. I shifted once more, straightening my legs until I felt my entire weight in my lower abdominals. There was no lighthouse nor ships nor pods nor schools. Discomfort did not always lead to dramatic imagery or literary escape. I adjusted once more, and sat perfectly straight and I felt able to eat again, should the opportunity present itself. Carefully, I lowered my feet into the cool water, just because I was not braced by solid ground, did not mean that I was exempt from stumbling too.

Twiddling thumbs against the air, fingers interlocked-everyone knows what your devices are conveying-vanishing distress is the best explanation for what is acquitted and ne’er. Without the connection to your hand, to your arms and to the rest of the geometrical shape, one is nothing more than an obsessive compulsive streak. It was not until I stopped the movements altogether that the inner spike of tingling heat brought forth the tang of the good fruit. I imagined a world where varying casts of wet crunchiness became more than just refreshing. With the mashing of the teeth, images bobbed and conclusions grew hasty and everything was correctly trimmed and abhorrently meek. My use of conjunctions was not elaborate but concrete, their genesis was desperate and warranted. Maybe I would always be polarizing, but because I was unwilling to spit the seeds, I finally had fashioned a group that was nutritious, loyal and vague. The only trepidation was becoming so unknown, that all that was random was in danger of being defined and explained. Burrowing inside-instead of living among-forever the antithesis of being greedy/shunned. Deftness slants the style of relief.

I live in a two-story town home that has furrows in the tile and pockmarks on the walls. The lights are few and far between, if I am lucky, I am in a room with more than one bulb. All the switches have dimmers, but with the whispers of my neighbors poking me from all sides, even the noon day sun is reluctant to get involved. I nap until the creek of the floorboards reminds me that dreams do not end, they merely stretch out… like cracks on a rubber band. I heard about an older man who fondly remembered the big game of his youth. I certainly understand the application, but am far from being impressed. The contours of the air are minefields adorning a glowing shore. Otherwise, each step would be synonymous with floating. Hatchlings of passing moods, separating their taste from the fading, pallid fuzz, this is the birthplace of work. Sometimes the third generation of leftovers is even sweeter than the fresh possibilities of a rescue; thankfully, the aging funk reminds me that there are lions everywhere.

Beyond the frequency and the pull, the overlooked parlors of daily breadth even out the flayed ledges of a supercharged pilgrimage towards a being that only feeds off of another’s vulnerable designation. Not much is left of either’s accomplice, and the summit has grown fruitless and flat. Style may not be resilient, but it deserves credit for stirring the lowest ripples on the aerial maps. Will this be the turn-on that trumpets the tears of the traveler? The pitty is ripe in blues and grays, yet that vast reminder keeps the rest of the regiment from falling back. Somewhere inside of this image, the dark violence is churning. To my next residence, you may find me tethered by an umbilical chord. With the orbit in full bloom…I no longer fear the signal of a pareidolic collapse.

Mean to me…all is joyfully officious…the skirts are out…I forgot my socks and stunk, and blistered upon the flattops of the burning gravel…and the soft fur would ever remain parted and black. There were no fleas, ticks or buzzards. You felt flimsy being carried back to the nest. But at least we were finally done and the trap door slammed beyond invented cobwebs and the earth skinned its knees, and the sky emptied its bowels and the verbs moved all to tears who were impressed by irreverence and the elastic snap of the piercing silence that swings beneath the lobe of the ear. Now I clench my fist and dip my right cheek down to meet the rough circle of the bitten scar. The screen is clung to by tape, yet the wind confronts us unabated. There are leafy green weeds that attach to the patio like ornaments to a tree. Their vibration is indistinguishable from the mortuary door that drags against the threshold, merely two quick miles past the sticky overlay of the whispering chasse. But I still hear your bell and I can still wrap myself in the name staked upon the allelic print of your towel. There is a catharsis from self- crime, that happens everyday, until you drag me to a state I cannot repay for coming true. Do not forget your socks or the succussion. The onion tastes different with every passing year. What could I have done with lighter steps and a lucid maze?

I would move on in a heartbeat if memories could be undone….and maybe today would only have prolonged the inevitable aspiration. Out in the brush we had something in common…you heading for home, me waiting in a pit for arraignment. Others would soon be following out of their own, faulty concerns. I had not thought about splitting up until your bell careened as a witness. Two sets of prints were definitely not foe, and toasted fronds worked better than matches. We can reference the birthday in another accord. If you promise to consider the weight of my words…I will set off for feathered branches.

My confidence had been assumed-laying underneath the byline of the worn almanac-from the outset-there have been three main definitions of fluidity. Tactically, I have always been the eldest, when armed with a well-meaning calculator and a flapping strand of a matted nape. And like that, I am committed to the oddest of experiences. Not from travels or tribulations, but from dividing inception into unrequited, equal parts. Fur and food were the logical places to start. Have you noticed the improvement…within yourself…or do I still require the trackings of a sherpa? For your part, I hear they are quite efficient during the lessor months. Skip the rationale and the ascension, there are twelve clean paths that will be the easiest yet to design and to frame. I am a genius, a genus and a genesis.  No one should question the whispers-silence smells funny, when looking out at the erratic droplets of a nugatory rain. Inside there is warmth from movement and inspiration from a single bulb. The blanket and the shade are necessarily lost from an era that was overbearing and prim. What is neat and orderly may be kept in other rooms, or within wings that can only predict that they meet the requirement for dressing. The littered envelopes on the floor confirm I have been delivered to the correct address. The stew is never piping, if only the waiter could free himself from a scattering haste, perhaps I would not rattle and the corners of the calendar could be dulled over and over again. But then what would we have to talk about? Answer without reliving the paper cuts –or sort the nonsense under the drip of the shaking pen. Carrots should be crispy enough to fool the new processor but not the origins of a plant and its stem. If I chose a weakened structure, then gravy would seep into the crevices of your key strokes, chasing the frightened appeal of a self-righteous whim. Yet the year of seven awaits us…in all of those unified, square pieces, that seem repeatedly unwilling to spread out or search for an improved position to defend. The outgrowth could be delicious, and varied when finally called upon, but what a shame-most fronds feel it easier to be castigated then nested within the annual eve of pretend.

Always be kind to ANIMALS…for we begrudgingly take our place within the deludes of that WORD that the trail of human behavior continues to earn…thankfully, projection is always on delay, so in the meantime, we are all free to enjoy the decency of having the same opinion.