Things are not always as murky or burly as they may seem. In fact, many of my layers are quite pleasant and light. Take the lizard who holds me while I sleep…I barely feel his tiny little arms, yet his touch is everywhere on my body. Sometimes I awake…and instinctively chew…purposeful when conjoined…apologetic when alone. If I regret…maybe he will return. I like it when he sleeps over, even if he resides only where I cannot see. Today, my human must ready himself for what lies beyond the confines of our tiny home. His shape is much different, past the spectrum of what is anatomically correct. He thrashes and kicks, tosses and churns. Survival is a messy proposition when your control is merely someone else’s possession. I feign disinterest, yet I leer at every stain. The sweat has begun to seep…like a rising tide swallowing up the last remains of a golden sand. Still I exist… my prince…to set thy spirit free. Will it be servitude or a smile? With my conveyance…they are one…always… between the webbing of the grasp. Someday the lizard will consume me, but for now, we dance the same. On the tips of my toes…I fill the narrative… for you…I carry less weight…and more acclaim.

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.