On the patio, I found myself listening to your weather report, my pointed curiosity, accompanied by a warming cup of coffee that required the efforts of alternating hands, and a folded newspaper that nervously clung to the insides of my knees. I had used my teeth to open the sliding glass door and waddled outward, stopping beneath a rickety overhang. It was made of corrugated metal, and lately had been showing signs of mold and rot. Perhaps now there was justification for the structure to remain intact, for even decay is worthy of a host to pursue. It was 74 degrees in Florida, but it felt much warmer in the shade. It was breezy, not windy. I could tell the difference as the individual palm fronds vibrated, yet the collective of the canopy held firmly in its place. The sky was as blue as you had claimed, still the clouds routinely appeared, each time, just before my cleansing thoughts could redirect my view. As I swirled the coffee around the sides of my mouth, and contemplated the pros and cons of differing time zones, all I could taste was the creaminess of the milk. The back page of the local section was satirizing downtown development and alluding to falling water levels of a popular, neighboring sea. Eventually, my tongue grew heavy and my lips became numb. I lost my balance and tilted downward, only composing myself when my head dropped below my hips. My feet were now staggered, the right foot in front, the left slightly beyond the realm of center. I was perplexed, but thankful that their courage had halted my impending fall. Things were much different than before, as I hesitantly resumed a vertical base. The trees were dark and heavily charred, and the sky was colored brown, now stained by fragments of wandering soot. My muscles were a giant spasm, while my hands fluttered as if transfixed by the harmonies of a controlling, seasonal tune. I was gratefully awkward, with skin that was suddenly bright green. The hair that once threatened the corners of my eyes, was leafy and well kept. There was an abrasive twinge inside my throat, which was followed by the emergence of an outward, gaping hole. A single piece of bark unfurled itself, curving upward at such a quickening pace, that I almost missed the fact that I was birthing an intricate, wooden spoon. The edges of the bowl scampered along the overhang, clearing debris and scraping away grit, until the roof that I had once claimed was nothing more than fresh aromas and clean, blue air. There were still clouds, but they were no longer in control. As the temperatures found the spoon, the grains warmed and the embers began to glow. The golden rays wrapped the headlines at the bottom of the front page: In L.A., it was supposed to snow.

I have a finger up my nose and I am humming a favorite melody. Not bad for table talk… for my digits are neither long nor extended…but allegedly…stubby and fed by a dissymmetrical blade. I am unsure about the specifics…as such allegories are rarely nostril friendly…much like the reviews of my companionship. The detractors are stuffy…high pitched…and…well…irretrievably nasal. I loath all of this chatter, tied to the summit of my face. Perhaps if the octave could be lowered, the future would be more about a healthy contrast and less about the habits of the bleak. I ate all of the food, even the envelopes that you spilled on. I drank all of the water, and in my travels…even managed to moisten the dandruff in your hair. Looks like someone else…is also not so perfect. Have you heard the twang of a guitar, crying in the rain? Grouping words and reflections are becoming a banner of unintentional refrain. Yet…it is so emblematic of our pod…that I am more than willing to fetch the longest shovel before receiving payment for the metaphoric debate. I can hold a tune though, but you think everything is a purr. Is there a moral equivalent to the heretical arrogancy of a standstill? Perhaps you can just accept the inaptness of my paw… as the savior of the incongruent…or should we merely focus on unearthing a sonorous conversation…and the veracity of its airy, pointed claims?

Sitting on the couch this morning, the air was cold and my breathing was light. I had judgements to make, so my internal clock told me to rest a little longer. The house was buttoned up tight, but I could still see my breath in the center of the sliding glass door. Outside, the trees were shiny and new, and the bushes leapt every time I felt an itch upon my tail. I suppose that was normal. In a moment of weakness, I included my human. He was playing with the remote, while balancing his coffee. I told myself that this was the last time I would ever be sympathetic. And then it was quiet again. The tenth year was mostly just a series of gray blurs and generic smells, however, year number two felt as rough as the tiny notches on my tongue and as curious as a thought that thumps the skull, and then turns around without a concept to display. I was not at a loss…only a little flustered. Perhaps, there was just too much gravy waiting on my plate. I squirmed away from the pillow and the blanket, it was nice…last night I had been appreciated. Much later, I would lose the remote and then knock the coffee over. I suppose that too was normal. Year number three might not be here soon enough…beyond the thumping…………………..I counted myself amongst the ellipsis of the leaves.

If this is what you want to do…then don’t. That way…the disappointment will constantly be familiar…but hey…there is always a little more toothpaste trapped inside the cap. Squeeze harder and your nipples may tingle. Free your mind or sue the manufacturer. Either way, the caution will no longer be the supplier…and the debutant will never flop.

The darkness was everywhere…most specifically between the clefted knuckles of my right and left hands. Strangely, there was a loitering cloud of light that occasionally found its way into the edge of the right eye. It was as casual as the look from a stranger, after you had mistakenly turned and realized that you were still waiting on your friend. The trees blew hard, in a close distance, perhaps to offer a clue as to why the journey had commenced, more than likely to hide their own culpability, as all tracks remained inaccessible and remote. Maybe they just wanted you to turn, this time… all you found was the beaten path. Thankfully, opinions never managed to stay rooted to just one place. Soon, the worries became as light as the breeze that gently carried them away. The screen door quickly opened and then just as quickly…snapped shut. It was not hot, but it was not cool either. The drops of liquid were hitting the highest plains of my feet. The ice was gone and now my glass was completely full. The taste would be dull, but all good signs remained intact. If being left unattended meant one could increase its presence…then no errors had been made. Never again would I care if the stranger hugged me back.

Experimentation….it can be presumed…is the fermentation of a diffident seed. I first ingested this recipe, licking carpet, years after adapting to the unpleasant friction initially broached by my belly and then later betrayed by the lowering of my chin. It was not the scent nor the imagined taste that coaxed my tongue forward. There was simply nothing else of primeval tender, after all, every reflection is of a historical persuasion…up for auction…every moment… available for trade. I acquired a few strands of synthetic fiber and perhaps even a bit of well-worn food. Could my offer metastasize into a form of girl talk…eventually leading to a pillow fight…ripping undetected… crashing against an unnamed face? Clearly, there was only a vague preoccupation with the occurrence, I would have to sprout a companion…which annoyed me for proving another trait. And then I tasted it again and again, and finally still…once more. Now, I was as quantified as the artifacts that I nudged. My fur growing moist, my whiskers beginning to flood. I coughed loudly and then I gagged. Practice and portrayal… while unraveling…. was progress…albeit conceited and immature. But what if the girl swung and missed? Calmly, a tradition or a recital would joyfully be labeled as hypothetical…encased by cascading feathers…my lonely self belief…welcomed by the receding stability… of the impotent, balding shag.

If social media is still an essential party favor to get thru even the most special of days…then isn’t a birthday just a celebration of renewed masochism and mundane figuration? Or is it only the pretense of the cake… that is capable of tightening the garrote around the numbered flame?