Who we are is a direct reflection of what orders we are given. I do what is scripted for me… a twisted plot conceived within the charred halls of my internal government. Here              the politburo schemes. Their assembly is not a secret, but their discussion surely is. Every day there are over a thousand alerts…signifying that another emergency session has been convened. An alarm as  clear as an annoying itch on the tip of a finger… the result                of  tracing  the worried path of an asperous brow… or as perverse as a redundant glance under the table…searching for anything  you may have dropped even though your pockets have always been empty.  When we respond with impotent anger, the complex simply laughs…pulling us deeper and deeper into our memory banks until we drown in the rising tide of a calculated mockery. Confusion becomes our confinement…to the point that we try and convict ourselves. In that moment, we must become. Grinding our teeth until they are as smooth as a saltwater kissed pebble or craning our neck to the side until                    the momentum of the heavy shame  forever slides away. Thru boycott, we have earned    the right to ask the question, “why?”…maybe someday thru revolution we will finally be answered with a reason.

The realm would be much more appealing if every smile that it encountered prevailed only in liquid form, encapsulated within the simplistic confines of a clear, glass bottle. Here it could be appreciated for its presentation in an aboriginal habitat, free from the avarices    of unclean lips and greasy prints. An upward gaze revealing a strobe of colors, each strand of the spectrum proudly represented…full bodied and rich with playful possibilities and loyal promise. A downward peek, and you would find the light darting to the bottom,             leaving  an oily footprint, traces of dark fruits and roasted caramel coating its reflective sides. But there would be temptation with every droplet that bypassed the outpost of your iris.  Soon you would crave her taste…a burn too much for most. Do not fear the wants of  your palette, instead consider the probabilities. Should you choose to consume, you would have to open. Once she was free, she would no longer be intact,                                   and more importantly, she would no longer exist only for you. Others would emerge,             offering that which you cannot… what she so desperately demands…                                       the constant attention that comes from a recurring introduction. Strangers becoming           lovers only to be discarded with each new penetration. There would be no reasoning with her energy or appealing to her sense of devotion.  After all, it was your hubris that ignited her appetite and crippled what you sought.  Sometimes you have to adjust                             your inclinations…or you too will spoil on the shelf…what you desire to attain may no longer be permissible…but perhaps you can imagine what you seek from the obscurity of a tin can.