My confidence had been assumed-laying underneath the byline of the worn almanac-from the outset-there have been three main definitions of fluidity. Tactically, I have always been the eldest, when armed with a well-meaning calculator and a flapping strand of a matted nape. And like that, I am committed to the oddest of experiences. Not from travels or tribulations, but from dividing inception into unrequited, equal parts. Fur and food were the logical places to start. Have you noticed the improvement…within yourself…or do I still require the trackings of a sherpa? For your part, I hear they are quite efficient during the lessor months. Skip the rationale and the ascension, there are twelve clean paths that will be the easiest yet to design and to frame. I am a genius, a genus and a genesis.  No one should question the whispers-silence smells funny, when looking out at the erratic droplets of a nugatory rain. Inside there is warmth from movement and inspiration from a single bulb. The blanket and the shade are necessarily lost from an era that was overbearing and prim. What is neat and orderly may be kept in other rooms, or within wings that can only predict that they meet the requirement for dressing. The littered envelopes on the floor confirm I have been delivered to the correct address. The stew is never piping, if only the waiter could free himself from a scattering haste, perhaps I would not rattle and the corners of the calendar could be dulled over and over again. But then what would we have to talk about? Answer without reliving the paper cuts –or sort the nonsense under the drip of the shaking pen. Carrots should be crispy enough to fool the new processor but not the origins of a plant and its stem. If I chose a weakened structure, then gravy would seep into the crevices of your key strokes, chasing the frightened appeal of a self-righteous whim. Yet the year of seven awaits us…in all of those unified, square pieces, that seem repeatedly unwilling to spread out or search for an improved position to defend. The outgrowth could be delicious, and varied when finally called upon, but what a shame-most fronds feel it easier to be castigated then nested within the annual eve of pretend.

Always be kind to ANIMALS…for we begrudgingly take our place within the deludes of that WORD that the trail of human behavior continues to earn…thankfully, projection is always on delay, so in the meantime, we are all free to enjoy the decency of having the same opinion.

SANITY: The act of enjoying the same thing over and over again…while someone else holds out hope for finally obtaining a different result.

The hanging glass -a great divide between the drying swipe that peers thru the counterparts’ prism of unrelenting honesty…. and the homesick celibacy that reflects off our cloudy set of sticky lies.

Out in the street there is silence…and the gaslight remains caustic and blonde. No one to wash out the laundry…relief cannot keep serving the fond.

Halloween….celebrating constipation in cats since 500 BC!

Someday, I will awaken with a peace that encompasses all…friend…foe…most likely, those who wear both hats. No longer tugged back by a baseline that repeatedly encroaches upon the bands between our patterns…our blood no longer leaks, our streams rush too quickly to overflow…staying one step ahead of the meddling fingers passing fresh fruit thru the cage and the roaring breath that makes our ears howl. To the philistines who store my image to rear their kids and make their fables special, I bow my head in unnatural, furtive ways... watching stodgy notions… that will forever remain a phrase. Wobble off and hiccup my name …for I am close enough to the gates to know that there is salt within the air. This is going to hurt, but confinement does not make my Lord small.

There is no such thing as a bad writer…only the blowhard who is convinced that he is obligated to tell you everything…the porch is a meddlesome interruption of the nighttime sky…

and the polymath who is unsure if it will ever be the right time to share...in a clever flash a constellation straddles a ledge of purpose and sight…

To you Jerome, all I can say…Felis lives forever!

It was for pure benefit, to earn a reward if one is spiritually confined. Attaching machinations, some apologetically lazy, others vindictively profound. A current is always flowing, wet or dry, searching for spaces and time that it will never fully see. That comes from the privilege of settlement and experience, and why everything that travels within range, I choose to capture for my needs. In that regard, I am a taker, but not quite a thief. For, my customs are merely interpretive. Woody, Jim, Mike, Biddy and whomever else… are always open to being shared and pulled apart. In fact, I am sure that is the way that we all prefer to live. Leaning on a hard, grey wall connecting under the racing street, jumping higher, between staggered trees, before the humidity goads another branch to snap- as simple as an insurance policy that has an infinite term and is never afraid of paying out. The arenas were now more like border highlights, the edges of my limitations, challenging all that I had most recently learned. It was a time of forecast and friction, the autumn of the day. The centered masses were drifting separately, some nodding off inside of the cooling tunnel, that would be one erstwhile conclusion. But the frontier was immaculate and golden, finding the undulations of my webbing nervous-yet- unimpaired. To author another variant of utopian description, meant to do so without harboring a reflection, up from the ashes, there could not always be a beautiful hint, but by the lemon yellow streaked call of tomorrow’s capture, the pressure would return upon the favorite son–pitted against a shadowy foreground of cursory glances and cascading preoccupation-for the first time–I found the dotted glow of the idling boundary to be a more profitable listener–gusts and stitches -searching for the aberration that lies awake.

Commitment is not won over by the trembling of an enigmatic handshake. Firm or flimsy, all is nonchalant and casual, initially, shelter is offered on a trial basis only. The terms become reciprocal as the ideas shed instantaneous demands, instead growing codependent, roped in by a modified forward lean, a perfect symmetry with the temptatious dawn of the oncoming pink waves. Mike was still across the road taking inventory, even at the base of the last remaining tree, he was perched above the ocean, which by now was familiar, scurrying at the bottom of the sea grape covered hill. This was more reminder than revelation, but commitment is predicated on redundancy. To his right, Mike could see Jim, and to his left he could see Woody, two points at the respective ends of a panoramic map. The crumbles of dirt and and shavings of wood mixed with Mike’s sweat to form a skin tight, layered paste. Mike had felt just as snug on top of a towel, under a blanket, imagining the wind whistling between his knees. This is how he would have his day in the shade. Instead, he made Jim the purveyor, Woody the brave one. The pair of legs that scissored through the lowest reaches of the sky was not worth a further dissection. Perhaps, the sand understood that he was watching, and perhaps both Jim and Woody realized that Mike already knew them. It would take a long and reclusive set of steps over the bedded needles and sharp pine cones before Mike could determine if he should continue with only the callouses on his feet apologizing for the delineation. Commitment did not require an accurate timeline, so just know that Mike had been in uniform with his saw, but was now in shorts and nothing else. Woody was smiling as if a restaurateur, readying to greet his favorite diners who had left him every time the competition unleashed another unseasoned trend. The metal beach chairs had been placed in unison with the backdrop of the wooden lifeguard stand. Woody stood motionless, which meant the layout had been decided upon long ago. Maybe the chairs had never been put away, but so went the timeline, and Woody knew where he was heading, which was why he waited patiently for the extras to show. Jim was racing between groups, as if he had the most girl scout cookies to sell. No one was small enough to be microscopic, still with the distance, Mike assigned pale shades and dark whiskers to all who were not bent over looking for shells, of course this had to be a group that was born from the same mushy clay, the plasticity determined whether one could roll their tongue, or how many digits would comprise a lucky number. The occasional car was nothing more than the harmless uncertainty, flaunted by a compliant streaker, as Mike nervously stretched until he was limber, cracking his neck in the middle of the street. The first interruption had swerved, spun out and then continued on in its preferred direction. But what if that trip was supposed to have been down the hill that leads to the ocean? Through the thicket of sea grapes, and the engulfing sand, between Woody and Jim, the unspecified legs were still housed in a haphazard motion, everything on the beach, linked to a rattling chain that was either gifted or cursed with an open ended set of links. Jumping ahead, Mike realized that a linear engagement, no matter how limited the impressionable might be, would have to be measured by more than beach chairs and desperate jogging. From the asphalt, the skin down below was more accurately sighted, now bronzed with the occasional patch of white fur. Mike decided his set of temporal recordings should be tied to the bottoms of his bleeding feet– raw flesh and approaching waves were more of a subjective hue than the levels of nerves that determined the future of what a greeting might pave, especially if the preferred alliance could yield a tangible absurdity, inside an endless supply of thin mints– with whatever was customary for a boxed shelter to convey.

The black keys of the piano hung in the thick air, wrestling with the fluttering salt and looping mist. All wanted to be influential, even if sound had the edge over texture and a recurring itch. Back then, there was dancing and sophistication, and the city was carefully placed in the crib of a napping infancy. Woody stood at the bar, stripes of sand haphazardly running across his back, a few last strands of seaweed being brushed away from the bottom of his chest. He signaled for two beers and smiled at the delicate fingers that were making him presentable. The ballroom was full and while most silhouettes were wrapped in black ties or shimmering pearls, there were plenty who were bare chested and tan enough to pass for modeling tribal wear. It had been a good day for Woody, his earlier rescue was more enthralling than the gains of the stock market, the new rail line and the plans for the first tall building– combined. Later, after dehydration had ended his courtship with the bottle, Woody promised to appear at the ribbon cutting ceremony for the hotel whose foundation they were presently imbibing under. It would be tomorrow, and although he would be coming directly from work, the occasion would provide another springboard for his trademark joke. In a blur, Woody was being whisked towards the dance floor, pulled in such a direct manner that his flip flops shed his feet, firing backwards in quick succession. Woody had been in this situation before and feigned being humble and embarrassed. Truth was, he had been waiting most of the night for a chance to be passed around, among the party elites, being on loan from the adjoining seabed, Woody knew that the working man was a limited fascination that could be canceled at any time. His edges were not jagged, still , they were not rounded enough to possess a civilized, secondary interest or unearth a seeded acumen after his trunks had begun to dry, yet while mimicking the vibrations of the orchestra, he was that special type of rudderless visitor whose path would uncomfortably approach, but never come close enough for his presumption to overstay. Case in point, Woody had inhaled two beers when he arrived, and then one for every question concerning the relationship between sea foam and panic. That made a perfect ten, and now his hopping right heal and sliding left toes were perfectly fueled for the night’s culminating ritual of solitary escape. Beyond the alleged-suspended judgments of the watching celebration, the freckled skin and sticky hair blatantly belonged to a caste that still needed to eyeball the ground to make sure that one’s lower half was keeping up with the choreography that emanated from the brain. Even as his missteps were shuttered by whistles and applause, he still caught a splinter, and as the wood penetrated a familiar, unhealing blister, Woody switched to a one legged balance, so that a new set of fingers could add a touch of elegance to the sore, first made famous by the common pioneer. The bandleader was either a fan or an opportunist, ad-libbing a piano solo, until Woody flashed an ‘ok’ with the both thumbs and forefingers. As Woody stood, a well dressed man feigned picking up the splinter and caressing it . In an instant, everything went silent, except for the twang of the black keys, that lingered in the air like an insecure echo. Woody remembered the punchline to his joke, and even if the current situation offered a better setup, he simply smiled and blew a kiss. Back on the beach, Woody had been versatile enough after all, keeping his aura from cycling inside a slab of concrete, and his destiny from being fastened to the health of the now decaying hotel. As the others set off in search of lands that were temporarily more festive and noble, it would most certainly be humorous upon their return, for even dotted in a wardrobe of sand and seaweed , Woody would still have nothing to wear.