I was not always a tired and emotionless schism, just as my energy did not equate to a posture of eternal lounging, nor a namesake touting a stubborn and disobedient cat. Food was a vessel by way of a logical landing, from my urges came a winding slide to supply an imperious, rumbling vat–and so now at age 13, I preferred a presence in the middle of my second course, communion always tabled the offering, my stomach a sanctified cache. Digestion was an appointment at the high noon of the cinematic manifest. While the hors d’ oeuvres were memorialized as lukewarm and spineless, their flavors remained close to the nativity of first impressions, and I- part of the same intolerable, yet hopelessly charismatic, summer cast. My consumption had frequently been seen as flawless, despite the intricate efforts of my throat to slow the circling down–all raptors eventually dropped prey against the skyway. Much like the rest of us, the details had been sublime, even if the majority had been bounced against the curb or scolded by the stalker for getting in the way of a number and a hug. The bedroom was dim and cool, the mint-colored sheets showed a general distaste for the modern philosophy of housing. I did not need to be on guard to know that I could overpower the last of the spinsters, fumbling around their machinery, clanging against the puffing columns of heat with a sobering haste, symptomatic of tussling with an heirloom for charity. Though my eyes were tightened, I was above mercy, just as a storm can cause damage, without waiting for its arrival to be worthy of a name. We should all be weary of descriptions that have the evidence to support an offer that makes perfect sense from unreliable senses. It is quite possible that the warmest of throws is no match for the encouragement from my lids’ darkened jaunts. Secretly, I suspect that my neighbors are no longer happy with how the mirror reports their winnings. Deep creases and forgotten errands can easily attach themselves to the crusted edges of a yearbook page– revisionism is alive and well in first period math. The nights were growing longer, and this had nothing to do with theory or hesitation. The contrary was not of purpose nor strife, it made me want to sleep more during the unproven accuracy of what the shortened day was attempting to mask. We were well into October, tomorrow’s census of pondering-would birth a maddening path to a bruised restitution– consumption had led quite the double life–as a set of feathery, gluttonous traps.

I had punished myself this morning as I often do. Three times per week my twitching skin matched the uncertain wishes of the early, purple sky. No longer was my stock beholden to the chipped clanging of the heavy dumbbells. I preferred straps and handled bands to the flecked iron that pledged itself to my sticky face. The harder I pulled or the longer I pushed, the elastic resistance grew more taught, matching the constrictions of every muscle that was up for promotion or renewal. I had no idea why the cause was so dear, most fanatics never do. I felt ill and gullible during and after every exercise–that I was also becoming terrified as I mentally prepped my body on its day of rest, made me a humbled, amateur fellow. There was no need to lie to the self-appointed council, even if the folly was benign or accidental, I always knew that eventually the incarceration would be over and the equipment would once again be stowed from sound philosophy and redundant sight. Upon completion, I promised to retaliate inside the living and make peace with an affable, well-earned social position. Not amongst the leafy people, but with the experiences that they oozed. There was a rule that I tried my best to adhere to; no passing would be repeated unless all previous novelties had been properly seen off–or ascribed as regretful or distrait. Today, I was heading out the front door. The backyard fashioned paths lingering amidst the overgrown hedges and burned out trees. But, I had promised my waffling morale that I needed to do a better job of being seen. I had never been married, which meant that I was morally vigilant in not having any children. I was no role model, my beliefs had been supplanted by urges from time to time. The inner slave was an exceptional litigator even though the proper jury often left him unsatisfied and feeling betrayed. The neighbors were much fewer than had been anticipated. Many homes had been shuttered. Those windows barricaded by splintered, knotted wood were sliding towards the impenitent jaws of the unkind, open market, while those residences that reflected a piercing, metallic light, urged the Yankees to return to the north to scheme. Their foreign payoffs would take place on the golf course or at a broadway play. I had crested the first speed bump and noticed the rooftop of the cabana that accompanied the community pool. From this vantage point, the amenities always looked their best. I kept that image as I lowered my head and powered on- past the flattened toads and severed curly tails, eventually, I was overwhelmed by the fumes of chemicals and the sputtering of the overworked filtration machine. Both were conceded as a joint appellation. More technical information was required for my restraint to demonstrate a proper snub. Thankfully, the outside breeze picked up and blew the humidity elsewhere. I was not sure of the exact location, there was so much new construction closing in from all directions, the air often resembled the fumblesome route that a poorly tied shoelace would be inclined to take. That was how my doubts processed the lack of a solid, visible ceiling. But in reality, my home had far too often emerged as the victor, usually by count out or submission. Now I was prepared to shake lose my anchored feet. As I continued on, I realized that my resilience did not need to be proven to exist, futility was an aggregate of being “dubiously possible”. I had family that lived just across the boundary street. There was a hot beer and a cold steak waiting. I considered looking back, yet did it really matter if the stove was still on or the door had been left unlocked? The temple-and all of its ashes and riches were fully mobile. Even if walls were implored to swaddle my brooding, my heels and the outline of my sculpted back afforded me the chance to remain forgetful and marginally ahead on bulleted points. I jiggled the deadbolt one last time and happily grabbed my suitcase. Free weights were not the problem–real discipline was being alone, grappling with an inadequate mystique. I was sure that the old limbs in the backyard could use a deserved break from my timely spasms. But would they go so far– as to applaud me for taking the middle seat?

I sprawled across my new diversion, a toughened, square rug that had once bravely entertained the dalliances of a venerable life. So much so, that the colors twirled away in every insipid direction. The blues or blacks, depending on the amount of remaining light or the observer’s level of self-absorption, were either heading towards the wall, at which the rusty past was purposely staring–renouncing the reach of derivation– or debuting a kinder intention by banishing my contortions from an imperishable, blustering range. The stems and petals were nowhere near as vibrant as their outdoor relatives, I am no longer convinced that there was any real color remaining for the reconditioned prints, as they were cropped as a creamy reserve that necessitated a nudge to be curious enough to crawl. Vines could become hedges if weary. Still, in fairness, I was heavily placed on top of the designed recesses of hope. There was a faint scent left by those who were suckered in before me. Perhaps in their time, the cause was more noble, and the patterns were bright and dyed to represent a regal life whose birthright was guaranteed by full warranty. Could I be the accessory that was burnt orange and brazenly defective? Or was there no crime in planning my authority, while apologizing for momentarily going soft? I counted at least three cats and two dogs as I thought about which one was remembered as the most loyal and who was disparaged for being pretend. As for the decorum, that involved one’s choice of synonym. My auto-response presented me with “ground” and “floor”, average the two and the median preferences were accepted in most circles as interchangeable. But when objectified–as in being held–I was retained by the compressions of a rectangle, two vexing borders if ranking an intruder as defiant. Now the conjunction that personified the depth of my queries was merely a life raft that had been perforated, while being raked across the crest of a boiling dream. Inside the brilliance of the late day, chilly sun- even a few of the splashiest bracts were falling. “Ground floor” was not a prism that yielded a clever escape, above the fluffy new world, I would long be remembered as the captive prince–whose redolence the monochrome era would never believe to fade—or accept as the aspiration— the travels of a bluenose- woven amidst the bright spotted weeds —-tattooed by the archaic copper plate.

I had stumbled, but managed to tilt around the wet, saltiness of an iridescent trench.  It did not take long for the parched stipe to flourish. And within the great service station in the sky, there was no practicality in the offer of being auto-tuned—-reemerging would mean kneading away a shadowy line. But even the most brilliant impressions were light years away from being accepted and then eventually ruined for the odor of love. My true self was a mere minutes to the side, and yet here I sat on my sunken, muted cushion and wondered why I could be so easily lured by the best decisions and worst outcomes of an eremitic pleasure. The spin-off of feeling important was covered parking closest to the unmanned gate. Still, confusion always told you exactly who it was. What we chose for intuition was the difference between able posture and how fluffy I preferred the liquid plume. As I shifted, the strands of rumination scattered.  Even without the wind, abundance should always be motioning like a temptress that was born without winter wear. In the coolest air there would be the tapestry of City Lights.  And while the porter would be happy if you were present, it only took one qualm to change a reservation.  I prefer to work backwards from a smile and a slap, until I can happily find my footing on cue. If I could just bring myself to dream in black and white, there are flimsy ropes within your impassioned hue. Reconciliation is not an alter ego, just as forever is simply a forlorn sketch of the viewer’s shimmering rage. Untreated, we are better left as arsonists on a colorless island…the neglected inner child is a curious sage.

The sky was charcoal, smeared gray and black, and that bumpiness made the waves more assertive in stature. The midday whistles that relayed order between beacons of undersold decency had slumped aside for the emergence of a low rumbling blockade that slapped me from all angles, as if I was aligned with the uprising from the stolen shore. My entire form was a single sheet of wet cardboard. It was night and it was certain…no one else felt the need to grieve. Not even an assumptive pair of eyes, that I forced myself to disbelieve. For arguments sake, even if something or someone had wanted to be present, there was nothing from me that could possibly be worth studying. It took more than flesh and bone to enhance another’s narrative. Sure, I was educated, but limited with actual qualifications that made my lines everlasting or my looks desirable. And yet, when that notion became only a soft crackle, like a vinyl record that had run out of words and melodies to entertain, I missed them as brothers who had gotten married, had their kids and happily moved their time zones far away. I played that thought back again, and again, found that internal patterns and constraints were no longer linear or brave. I would be dry soon, even if the tide was rising. The best tracks were merely hidden, like the needle found, boredom was an uneven trade.

Writing affords me the opportunity to explore the deepest caverns of the brain and blend those discoveries with my world’s current purpose, or wander off in search of future scenes. There is nothing more rewarding then tying loose words together until what you have created no longer needs you to be believed.

In the eight or so years of our relationship, I often hid the fact that I was here as an observer, and was technically not permitted to interject my thoughts or display any notable biases. Sometimes, I found it difficult to smother my varying levels of disdain. I found sanity and forgiveness inside of cupboards and underneath shelving. Contrary to the thick opinions that carved passageways throughout the first house, I was regularly amused at the results, these spectacles grew to such a continuous occurrence that I counted them as hobbies and friends. Still, there was nothing too serious to qualify as trepidant, until the time the outcome felt perpetual- an indifferent, but predictable mistake. So I hunkered down and thought about the mementos that I had left beyond the lawn . To be clear, it was my choice and I will continue to abide by that decision. The bed was never made, the bathroom was never clean and the dishes were always stored in the bottom of the sink. I was needed and that made waiting on various transmissions difficult and dull, at a bare minimum I could certainly tug the corners of the crumpled sheets. And then eventually, in a structure that had an additional floor, I was able to saunter up the stairs and rest upon a half wall, where above the floor to ceiling windows, even the setting sun bowed beneath me, I imagined I was equal to the wind. One day I was proven wrong and now I watched the tidal pool and the stump of a worn tree. The man was sitting, he looked worried, deflated even, I knew him well enough to describe his demeanor as rough. My feet felt warm and sturdy, and perhaps I could nudge him along, of course I would first suggest my perspective, I surmised this could be suitable for an audience to applaud. But what did I really know? The last time -it was off putting, and now here we were, two old friends that could no longer conjure what each sought in a mutual feeling of circumspection. So, I left him there and thumped my head. I promised to check back, and wondered if my origins were still leafy and his thoughts of me profound. I heard a branch snap to my rear and I scurried towards everything that was vast, and only wide open. There was an elevated railway bridge in the distance. Tomorrow, I would learn to swim.

I rocked back and forth upon the cylinder that was the interim summit of the large piece of driftwood. The beach was under less than a foot of water which made it that much more tragic, despite the current conditions, it had almost managed to hang on. Without a proper cushion, my tailbone infuriated my lower spine by forcing the bones to unnaturally bend. Looking once more at the beach, I supposed that everything had its season. At least the sea was clear which made the sand pink and shaded the water yellowish-brown, perhaps even golden. In the wind, I felt the weight of my feet preparing to snap the black limbs that came together forming my sturdy seat. Much like being atop an aging uncle, I hoped that I could easily be bucked if I was beginning to weigh too much. I lifted my legs and curled my kneecaps into to my stomach, stopping short enough to be able to balance a tray of food, if there had been the need to do so. The railroad tracks were still above ground, and still barely dry, but they lead towards the wet unknown, it seemed that everything was angled in that direction. No matter the symbolism, they would one day be slimy and beautifully wrapped in seaweed and other naturally occurring stages of decay. I was a few pounds over 200, in all accounts, the word physique could be used in sentences that contained my name. I shifted once more, straightening my legs until I felt my entire weight in my lower abdominals. There was no lighthouse nor ships nor pods nor schools. Discomfort did not always lead to dramatic imagery or literary escape. I adjusted once more, and sat perfectly straight and I felt able to eat again, should the opportunity present itself. Carefully, I lowered my feet into the cool water, just because I was not braced by solid ground, did not mean that I was exempt from stumbling too.

Twiddling thumbs against the air, fingers interlocked-everyone knows what your devices are conveying-vanishing distress is the best explanation for what is acquitted and ne’er. Without the connection to your hand, to your arms and to the rest of the geometrical shape, one is nothing more than an obsessive compulsive streak. It was not until I stopped the movements altogether that the inner spike of tingling heat brought forth the tang of the good fruit. I imagined a world where varying casts of wet crunchiness became more than just refreshing. With the mashing of the teeth, images bobbed and conclusions grew hasty and everything was correctly trimmed and abhorrently meek. My use of conjunctions was not elaborate but concrete, their genesis was desperate and warranted. Maybe I would always be polarizing, but because I was unwilling to spit the seeds, I finally had fashioned a group that was nutritious, loyal and vague. The only trepidation was becoming so unknown, that all that was random was in danger of being defined and explained. Burrowing inside-instead of living among-forever the antithesis of being greedy/shunned. Deftness slants the style of relief.

I live in a two-story town home that has furrows in the tile and pockmarks on the walls. The lights are few and far between, if I am lucky, I am in a room with more than one bulb. All the switches have dimmers, but with the whispers of my neighbors poking me from all sides, even the noon day sun is reluctant to get involved. I nap until the creek of the floorboards reminds me that dreams do not end, they merely stretch out… like cracks on a rubber band. I heard about an older man who fondly remembered the big game of his youth. I certainly understand the application, but am far from being impressed. The contours of the air are minefields adorning a glowing shore. Otherwise, each step would be synonymous with floating. Hatchlings of passing moods, separating their taste from the fading, pallid fuzz, this is the birthplace of work. Sometimes the third generation of leftovers is even sweeter than the fresh possibilities of a rescue; thankfully, the aging funk reminds me that there are lions everywhere.