Dry lines are all that I have to tell me that the talk was good. We walked with the metal stands surrounding us, holding us in fact, as if we were dropped right in the middle. The field was green, but darker than usual…maybe because of the conver-sation…or maybe because it was night. Somewhere the lights were bright…but here…they lacked con-viction…flickering high above…only when one of us squinted… trying to remember. It had been real, but often mis-understood. The con-nection was never about the gifts or the praise… you missed that part. All I ever wanted… was your pre-sence. Why you could not see…under…I will never stand. Even in the darkness, I was tall…sudden, yet dim illum-ination was not the one to reveal me. So, we trudge on, hands in pockets, waiting for the awk-ward to finally join us. We both know it is coming, the past can only stick around for a twitch or a crease, it too has somewhere else to be. The inner cataloguing seems more elastic than the first loop…as if this is a necessary thought. But what if the lines… are not really lines at all? Only hardening mem-ories from the last lap. I look to you to stop, before we trample what we lay. As I head for the grass, I am met only with the blank stare of what had previously been pro-tected. There are exits all around, tunnels at every turn. Which one did you take? If you promise to come back…I promise to never again…hyphenate the frame.

 60 seconds… go…my head feels clear, mainly because I have no expectations. Whatever spills out of my fingers will have to be good enough, there is no quality control. We             are going with honesty, intensity and most importantly timeliness. Strange how I detect certain burning sensations in my extremities. It is as if, my insides are trying to save me         from the very freedoms that they enlist. There can not be trust for the verse, no matter what the reason. As smothering as the nurturer can often be, in nature we are mostly good, yet in contempt… self serving all the time. But now, there is no room for additional input, only a mossed covered fence herding the cold vapor, in line for the next espousal. Today’s sublimation…the unfurling of the palm. A pin prick reminding that all lives do not flow through, instead we flow away. That is our birthright and also our cue to flee the scene. Just like the words that leap upon my laptop, they do not require a boost or  a constriction, only a theme. 60 seconds to commencement, portrait of a weaning. Coming to a postcard near you, whether you are aware of it or not. Who wants out? Feel the discoloration and let us know. Washed out and unabated…we shall reproduce on our own… only then shall we return, ready to be enabled once again.

Contrary to popular belief, there is a way out. Philosophically speaking, we are far too          dependent on the toxins that massage our pores and ask us to trust that all will be well… in the end. But they are in fact…the end. They tantalize and then enslave, until who we ARE supposed to be becomes who WERE supposed to be. I am orange and furry for  a        reason.  All has not been revealed, but I have it on good authority, that I will embrace the day of reckoning. There is welcomed activity inside, that is why my capillaries fill with all that  is vibrant and red. It is colorful for the inauguration. Still…I am conflicted when the smug become technical. The morbid shade of blue that supposedly flows within the elastic tributaries of life is nothing more than the poor optics of unrepentant confinement.  Yet     in the case of the horseshoe crab, all lifeforce does in fact pump blue. Who can argue with that sense of duality? There is creativity and contempt within every strand of damp fur that wraps around my diligent tongue. What I am unable to separate, finds its way back home again…drawn to what sustains, destined to begin the next time the clarity glows         and ripens in the wind.  But my structure has a role, unrepentant,  it pushes me eagerly         towards the light, until my skull thumps hard against the brim. We all bruise easily, novelty is often clumsy, ego loves to tuck us in.  Or maybe it is time to step into my new shell,             chasing my tail until my oxygen glows red above my skin.  Either way, I  leave my friend in good fortune, scurrying amongst the blue that confines the shade, looking closely I can see the crab almost grin.   

My feelings on it are sticky, they linger as thick milky paste would, should it reconsider and refuse to attach to what brought it into existence in the first place, I gently sway until I am sure I hear a song, the lyrics are muddled by distance and time, as they slide down the chute that leads to how I nod, they are forced to wait for recognition, held up by an earlier flight, that still waits for its belongings to be claimed, some have been delayed until in comfort they are no longer dizzy, spinning on the shiny carousel that is always                   well manicured, in constant motion, it will never hide the reflection or ignore the outline of a worn face, travel occurs within and it always wears itself out, back and forth I help to make the connection, sometimes I want to blend my all, but only when I am completely smooth, the parts will have to lubricate themselves, should I touch, I would only settle that which spins around, the motion must be sustained, even if much is unable to hold on, my body is a misplaced bog of rhythm, all that does not depart, it cannot cling or reconsider, firmly pressed together its union is what I long to feel, stuck within a rambling                prose, waiting for a glimpse of the thickening distance and a punctuation of the attaching time.

Waking late, I look for an excuse to wake at all. The unrefuted is a warm blanket and a soft bed. The metaphysical is uncertain and often times unkind. But I never refuse an offer,
especially when it is free. And while the next round will eventually be mine to buy…
right now, it is someone else’s burden to wear. The more I need to rest, the more
redundant I become. Aspirations are no longer sharp, the words “ready and set” trail off…dull and evanescent…like a spirit forced to linger…when all it wants…is to simply run and hide. I like simple too, which is why I seduce in the company of influence. Carefully peeling back the covers, I afford the watchman with something that must pass his time. His
purpose is tied to mine, his difference is what I know…and will never follow thru. I am
wicked for those who pull me up. Their hands are soft and welcoming, which makes it
easier to let go and fall into my way. Eventually they will grow tired of reaching, the oars will return to the ship, the seas will rise to embrace a future course. One where the tide will hold no grudge, its current will no longer seek umbrage from the lethargy of despair. As I will steadfastly remain… the sullen bed will bruise my back, the blanket will be too warm. In the dawn…the excuse I have become will have to shoulder all the blame.

I would very much like to post more…but the upload refuses to stay awake.
Is that a flaw in the mechanical…or a harbinger of that which is at stake?