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.

Christmas is a wonderful time of year, based upon a wonderful time for a birth. Clear skies, winter burn and here I crouch under a German tree. This year’s crop may have come from the edge of the Mid Atlantic. The tips of the pine are dangling a bit lower than last week when my holiday season arrived, from roof top to a metal guided stand. Sap and slobber can break the resolve of any dried-out branch or the intentions of any well-conditioned hand. Clearly, we would be right at home in the fields of the Tar Heel State. But stickiness and residue do not make for comfortable bedding or for a flock of sheep to remain intact. Personally, I have adapted quite well to where the roots and the water conflux. It is not a perfectly executed illustration, but Bethlehem has its issues too. There should always be room at the Inn and modern-day peace should always triumph over ages of open ambivalence. This is why I leave the ornaments alone. Sure, dangling tin and blown glass are easy to annoy and even easier to bump when pressed. Still, the lower that I crouch, the cozier I feel. There was and always will be safety in a manger. Since, I have never witnessed a sermon, neon colors will have to serve as good tidings from the spirit and the wind. The lights shine brightest, as the Holy World lays us down. Confinement can be a straw bed, and history, an understanding next of kin.

Guilt and math. They drag me forward like the pig-tailed girl at recess-tearing the sleeves from my familial dignity-better known as the fabric of my favorite shirt. There is something about purple that I have always found fascinating, especially when the colored tinge is the basis for a flashy pattern or a subservient life to sort. I have checkers bordered by shadows on the tip of my tongue. I plan to speak on the insinuation, as soon as my body stops twitching from the rash of the frictioned heat. Clearly, I am deviating from the benefits of being a tailor, of which I am not an appropriate displacement or a sanctioned trope of conceit. It is hardly that confusing when you consider my position from the register of a store. If I had power over a stitch and a steam, I would have kept grinning-lips parsed tight, teeth grinding with precision. But objection calls on the overmatched to deliver. At least my bouncing ribs will not require waxing. Mt. Fuji is framed in corresponding fashion. The flowers are as resilient as they are enchanting-every post and every lantern is endeared to the epitome of yesterday-happiness comes from the ability to recollect a photo’s insistent bloom-even if heaven slowed, while passing by-were you caught wondering when the aggressor might issue a reprieve or cut the ropes loose? Hapless debris is rapidly filling my nose, yet I can still smell the blossoming dye that is now draining a leather emblem’s carefully, crafted pose. Replacement value is based upon what a consumer can ingest. At the current speed, an occasional strobe introduces a lighter shade that may one day be a relative to a salmon’s gills and the fluorite of a lake. But for now, the design should sag from a mannequin’s rounded shoulder, while being smitten from a jester’s vexatious grin. The cars hover in unison, which leads me to believe that my attacker is not native to a manageable, lesser gear. Eventually, mirrors attach to my perimeter. Glass seems to pulse from an electric 80s wave. I miss the wrapped box and gift receipt. To be off my feet was to be fluttering like a fallen ribbon, and does a date really exist to eliminate being classified as defective and unsought? These last few tics have not been enlightening or less anesthetic. Wherever the tank empties will castigate an opportunistic and hesitant embryonic trend. I would like to think that what remains will be fully glowing–for wearing shorts today cannot be imagined as anything but wrong. Over the mountain is the output of being shifty, sob stories are the recipe for being frustratingly enigmatic and disproportionally strong. Those who get blessed twice are worthy of headings in a book. I will settle for drifting off the grid with a proper masquerade. Eventually, everyone else becomes a distant logo- skimming across the crushed grooves of a circular highway- listening to the wing-clipped mutton, there is no such harmony between pigmented calculation and restitution from a tiny blonde in a cage.

I ask, “is there a timetable for captured knowledge to shoulder a reversible commute?” I aspire to move away from seasonal metaphor and holiday enchantment, still, descriptives are rebuilt friends and the harvest is pleasing and plentiful*. On this stroll, you can claw inside the asterisk-pulling equity from a whimsy investment-trading within a point-blank scope or beyond the gambit-and the depth of a fielded frame. Sometimes, I wonder how the sunlight feels upon facing a cloudy roadblock? For me, when a freckled suit gets torn, I almost always encounter a Sicilian defense, and its pieces are not confined to the squares or the board. How can the wind and physics coexist as one? Should not everything graduate to becoming minimalistic? If everyone was honest, only a page or a palette would have a viable option to flaunt. I am often amazed as to how a racing mind, and a racing day can allow for a still shot to name anything that brings joy or merit. There are actual, recorded citizens trademarking an insatiable landscape that inspires 10,000 written words per day. I can preface the next sentence with ‘no offense’, for my response has been and will always remain ‘none taken’-but the hardware scans-and triggers the register by certifying that each action is perpetuated-only by a mosaic approval summoning a future project with an abrupt ring and a tapping susurrant. Otherwise, compulsive cart hopping would yield a world governed by coat collars and leashes for keys. I do not pretend to know about you, but I am sure that given the opportunity, you would promote an intact imagination to a flock of loosened politicians and their auxiliary supply of graft, screaming from behind the well-fastened springs and jiggling locks that keep them callous and fat. And then, there is another scene, sunny and light. Even the air feels as if it is comfortable labelling you as an ancient master. Yet for some reason, I am flicking at my ear. Have I not trotted on from the previous boredom? I just now noticed that the interior blinds, that cover the left half of the window, appear to be moving- but only if I release their promises of privacy from the delayed analytics of my filtering brain. Could that mean that all acknowledged interpretations do not even qualify as dalliances? I can honestly say that I hope I do not live long enough to realize that there is more time left than memories to sort. Inside the gaps of the clock, my keystrokes can comfortably jog without so much as a hang nail or a flea. That is what the harrow tells itself. Even though it is just one of many productive purchases whose needs can be universally, agreed upon- by itself-the output does not make for an unadventurous or unpalatable home. Somewhere in the middle of artful description and icy truth, there is experience and law, I hope you have pointed north from your original mast, for accomplishment moves the given tool repeatedly, until the subject matter begs for an acquitted, modified cost to skew. I have little faith, so I say once more, “please tell me that you have purposefully plotted a course and solution- one that is happily married-protecting the field of view.” Still, not every pinch yields a perception that is friendly or bouffant– is not an alternative- the comedic realization of what we in return should syphon and classify as an arrowed ‘want’? Neither of us are in any position to raise the white flag or claim an objected stretch of propriety. * If not for a better process to unwind, then observation and maturity will remain unlatched—just as returning home is as simple as a preamble to persuasion -well-timed-the Alapin is more satiable than the imminence of a uniform, festive scratch.

By the time that I spoke up, against the primal rule of three and the excesses of a puddling encampment, soggy trappings emerged- cool and slick -confidants- for a room full of interplanetary gases. My throat jerked- front to back, but not to the point that the air burnt along the skeletal byway with each apportioned breath, that went out with the yellow. Instead, it was as if the recipient had become the benefactor, in softness, I felt relief from supervision–that was the caveat of a clever limp. Although my thoughts were oxygen deprived and hazy, my awareness was clear and forward leaning, occasionally wrapped with faint sounds that lined the turnstiles from a musty, parched dance floor inside a seaside club that was made of a pithy, translucent hay. It was therapeutic to balance a syrupy revere along the tip of a piped bassline. Overtly, I proclaimed that all of the upper fashion was to fray well above the waistline, my whiskers would scout the terrain that jiggled against her trembling thigh bone-I promised the tiny, peaked bumps that paleness was a lauded derivative of an aqua cooled frontier. Being noticed was arousing and brave. The sun rose from the sky and the moon refused to job to the distance. The neighborhood tom had moved on in the same way -espousing contempt while chasing glory. The marked occasion pulled close by way of flattery and subtractive mixing. Still, my shadow refused to admit that the elusive tether made the courtship rhythmic and sore. I ollied above the next pretense, and lavished praise upon the guests who fought the solitude that made many a defiant widow, waiting for a knock, nose and laces pressed firmly against the door. The bell caught all who were leaning. Whether I was cutting the record or stirring the vaporized shore, the melody grinded on around me, the giant world separated liquid from aroma, just as velvet ropes reminded hope that an audience was wanted by the seat backs of a fleeing car. Thankfully, my sense of decency was not predicated upon crumpled dollar bills and synthetic, bouncing lashes. Mint colored gelatin smooths lines and cushions braces, under the dampness of a pelt that supersedes all sculpted styles and works of art. Yet once again, I felt a converted plan—now, much more urbanized- and grandiose–an heir to an artisan’s highway, whose rest stop is the very nature of a resurgent carouser who bats at his own reflection, the shade of this scale has not been seen in these parts before. There were no coordinates that offered a plausible comparison between forced evacuation and guided math. But if I am being couth, I prefer the illusion of perspective to the hierarchical offspring of a warming towel and a well-trimmed lap. Anonymity has a powerful pull, and curbside appeal is more background than the sum of the artic fodder. A drying scalp can be a twitch or a trigger for a set of casual eyes to unknowingly follow– away from where the brushes can overtly run. Involuntary coloring is frequently needed— to prod what’s beneath the tale–the pa—and the ever-mottling pun.

The salesman trumpeted earthly heat over the currents of an electrical field of radiation. The red-hot coals crackled, a flick of the switch was less frumpy, the sales pitch mocked its segregation–one worked wonders on the road, the other required hysteria for breaking. “Innovation” was a new breed of pagan, fluttering eyes console me. The overgrown message delivered more than wax build up and sticky tape, the wind slipped up for a change and left a freckled, white print–I could be an arbitrary next of kin, I suppose– if the fat man flying through the air would embrace me. Encouragement lead to coverups dropping, sliding with or without a crippling residuum. I nibbled and dribbled as the charred branch became the serrated edge of a vagabond’s stick. I leaned forward until the boiling lens pushed me fast away from a symposium of posterity. It was as if deliverance and exposure were the divining rod of a mechanical rabbit’s electrocution. Being jostled to the lead was a strategy that ensured a mountain zone low on chill and sting- a proposal our route was never meant to accept as the gateway to affusion. What could possibly have us looking back–educating a toddler who found handling a marooned jellyfish akin to an eclipsed sibling that would ultimately return as more playful and demanding? As the dustbowl parsed us off to the extremes of a silver, gravel lining, the flatbed tugged at fraying ropes and religious understanding. Daily devotions welcomed home the handsome, forward scout who had endured and feared little enough to avoid cowering among the loose rocks atop the scape which extoled a higher grade to pursue, between the lush fields of raked leaves and the backlit felt of a glowing folly. Polls indicated that entombment found favor under mossy oaks or widening banyans. Both trees grew diligently enough to provide the newly dead with a softer landing–and a lighter load against a ramshackle set of brakes. I rumbled on until the pavement mixed with the sky to trap the sweat-soaked fuel against the kicked-up ashes. Oh, how I would never fight off a bath again. On more than one occasion, I feared my insides burning, as if I could not be trusted around a capless container of hydrochloric acid or the quench of liquid chlorine. Blended smoke and a drenched yellow painting—traversed underneath a newly christened countryside. It was my hope that those who made the trip considered a likeness of non- consent to be of heavenly refrain–and the stifling heat- a pilferer’s viable remainder. Hanging poetry on a wall or stamping a furrowed letter–without the plug, the ideals tumbled directionless, but faster. The chiseled land was solely my design—there was no such thing as sour grapes— or a tonic for radioactive dander.