As the first woman neared, Woody was unaware that a second followed closely behind. It was not his vision or an inability to count that was acting as a hindrance. Rather, it was a shuffling light emanating from the slopes of a purposeful sand dune that was consuming the surface of his inquisitive eyes. It was akin to a magical orb that Woody had heard about when his grandmother used to babble about the creatures who lived in the woods. Supposedly, they used bursts of illumination to momentarily interrupt moonless nights, all the while piquing the curiosity of the most foolish of settlers. Woody could never understand the power of intense attraction versus the horror that fueled self preservation. On more than one occasion, experiencing this phenomena supposedly led families to exchange their homes and their safety for a pathway that lured them far, far away. Woody could still hear his grandma whispering the tale, while back in the world, he scrunched the top of his nose upward, bolstering the efforts of his squinting eyes. No matter the era, the “far, far away” was always a dead giveaway that someone was pulling his chain. He smiled and once again, promised not to hold it against her. The bright light was now flickering in different, and irregular dimensions. Flat triangles, giving way to thick diamonds and tall circles. Woody knew that there was no immediate threat, other than the burning sensation in his right eye. Even when he slept, he often struggled to keep it fully closed. It was not yet the middle of the day, and the sun was more than a viable substitute for a resting moon. Besides, sand was now beginning to fly and swollen, pinkish legs– repeatedly stumbling, were just enough to create a lingering image that reluctantly-Woody would be forced to entertain. As the flashes became less frequent, the legs continued to grow bigger. There was enough experience in the old lifeguard to trigger a feeling of impending horror. Somewhere far, far away, a wayward settler was supposedly begging Woody to join him, while Jim stood at the base of the shore, most definitely, pulling his chain.

Jim’s feet reluctantly made contact with a small tidal pool that was just in front of the shoreline. He hated stagnant water, but figured that this was the least invasive way to get acclimated with the temperature of the sea. Jim wondered if hepatitis or a bacterial infection would agree, or if Woody was beyond the point of being saved. No one could ever accuse Jim of not covering all the bases. There was a hilly, four foot gap between the pool and the ocean. The wind barely rippled the hairs from his shins, and the sand that rested beyond the edges of Jim’s naked feet was dry and undisturbed, healthy circulation was still a distant moon rise away. Jim drifted back to the boardroom and thought about the extra cost of his thin, cotton dress socks. For most occasions, smooth, soft skin was certainly worth the $20 upgrade. And now thanks to his daily habits, he could feel every droplet of water and every flake of salt as his mind considered the craftsmanship of every seam. Jim rarely felt so alive and excited about a purchase. He surveyed the closest set of waves, they looked smaller with every forward push. On second thought, he was the better man, and each rush of water up the shore was proof that everyone already knew. Looking down, there were reflective purples and pinks that a younger Jim had only seen in a pack of crayons. In the distance the low lying clouds sat atop the sea, like icing on a cake. In the heavy air, Jim could smell enough perfume, to know that feminine eyes had found him. His back was now warm to the touch, even though the sun remained high and well endowed facing his resurgent front. So this is what the frontier had felt like, open spaces and automatic love- just like the displaced chunks of foam, no one cared at what point they had fallen, until what was left was no longer good enough to have or to hold. Squirming possibilities gave way to restless motion and then contaminated bare skin, the insides of the puddle were shifting, mirroring Jim in a manner that was both muddy and ordinarily fraught. He thought he heard Woody laughing, and surmised that the ladies preferred a man who enjoyed the benefits of thicker socks.

The lifeguard was already clutching his red flotation device. I think that is what they are called. Or was that what a seat cushion became, if a plane were to crash? Either way, Woody held it tightly, as if it was his life that depended on maintaining its full control. I certainly had my reservations. The exterior was severely faded and exposed with enough chunks of foam missing, in random locations, that one would have to wonder if the device was capable of keeping itself steady and above the unevenness of the sea. I had been present when it was new, whole and shiny. But we were all different versions back then, and in the moments to come, we would be much better, despite how everything would suddenly seem. That would be a product of hanging on, and being accidentally relevant. The emphasis being placed upon “accidentally”, because I was the one capable of interpreting the women’s movements, while Woody and Jim moved the sweat beyond the front edges of their hair. Yes, Jim was still involved. That was just one of the original conditions. As strange as the two women who were approaching, their arrival deserved nothing less than an uncomfortable sense of calm-which was why Jim was now stripped down and heading for the shore. In his mind, a being in constant motion was far more compelling to the opposite sex. Later he could re-emerge and lecture Woody for collecting a paycheck while just standing there. I straightened my legs and decided there was no reason for any limping. The women were not capable of adoration. I began to wonder if the flotation device had ever been classified as red.

A woman appeared to the South. She had not been expected, but her presence was hardly considered rude. The woman moved so slowly that she was initially thought to be a large clump of drying seaweed, defiantly lifting in the wind, before it had begun to rot. Soon, the woman began to grow thicker, until her waddling gait demanded recognition and a courteous refrain. Truth be told, she had been on the beach almost as long as everyone else. But only I knew that. It was not the patches of sand cascading down her face that cemented that revelation. I simply understood what slumped shoulders and blinking eyes had always meant. Inevitably, there was another that came behind her, similar in appearance, but maybe a few years older. They all looked the same to me, even if life and the cost of aging could have been more genuine, or perhaps a little kinder. The first woman was now upon the lifeguard. She was struggling to get his attention. I thought about how this could go, but was not sure I was ready to make a wager. Of course, the beach would one day be besieged by perfume and pantsuits. I stepped back, appreciative for the head start. I did not wish to limp off and become irrelevant. There were still strange places I had always wanted to see.

The sand was hot, and there was little else going on at the moment, save for the occasional, apologetic wave that had once seemed forceful and abundant. From the road up above, there had been a singular coating of white foam crashing against the tips of a typecast shore. Now I wondered, had my perspective always lacked motivation? The characters were scattered at random distances from both each other and the ocean, even though they were convinced that they had been convincing while interacting. I knew that the horizon was permanently fixed, which was why the only curvatures that naturally occurred were in the middle of theatrical conversation. Someone should have told the curly haired man that his life was always being re-scaled to fit the variance of his flimsy positions. The old lifeguard was afforded that title and little else. He had done more to keep every person and every possibility away from his imagination, then he had ever protected or extracted from the sea. The others were annoying but were needed to raise my levels of intrigue to a healthier standard of satisfaction. I thought about yelling to drum up some much needed spirit, but ultimately, decided against it. Despite all of my rough drafts, in this lifetime, the Earth would always lie flat.

And iiiiiiiiii trap light beneath my paws…

And iiiiiiiiii steal life inside my skin……

And iiiiiiiiii breath shrapnel in the wind….

You whisper to my cause, blocked above the loud aplause

AND I….THINK TWICE BEFORE I WAVE

And iiiiiiii predict the loosening of the bolt….

And iiiiiiiii sew comfort on a dare

And iiiiiiiii teach infection how to care

Dangling motive down my throat, plagiarizing every note

AND I….THINK TWICE BEFORE I WAVE

And iiiiiiiii know grass is soft upon first crack

And iiiiiiiii plow underneath the throne

And iiiiiiiiii weaponize the groans

Upright it’s always black, just before the faith comes back

AND I…..THINK TWICE BEFORE I WAVE

And I resolve to make amends

And I promise to pretend

And I return what they will save

AND I….I WILL BE BRAVE

I will be brave

(truth wants urgency)

I will be brave

(truth wants urgency)

be brave

(truth wants urgency)

be brave

(truth forgets my urgency)

be brave

I will…….not……wave

In a man’s world, I walked into a diner and ordered a ham and swiss sandwich and a side salad. I unfurled the morning paper, and before I was able to find the sports section, I was already scowling at the waiter behind the counter, because I had forgotten to order a large cup of coffee and a small carton of whole milk. I was well aware that I was mixing meals and hours of the day, but I liked playing the role of the victim, no matter how strange the job or method of egotistical love. As usual, the ham was undercooked and the swiss resembled a swath of melted glue. There was never any charge nor conversation. I always left the salad alone and resisted the urge to use the bathroom. The newsprint had been perused, and was now randomly carved and strewn across the floor. I jogged to the entrance, accompanied by a series of odd looks and friendly animation…it hardly seemed convincing. No one’s life would be any richer…if they knew the start of tonight’s baseball game had been pushed back to 8.

When you told me that you had met someone, I was very happy for you. When you told me that we could no longer grow together, I was very happy for you. When you told me that I would never produce anything, I was very happy for you. When you told me that I should wither away and die, I was very happy for you. When you told me that your concept of the moment was redundantly black or white…I thought about how toxic our bed had become…and was relieved that tomorrow would never bloom.

If you do not believe that nip is omnipresent and can take on many forms…then how else do you explain the varying, impulsive absurdities of the world… that we all feel so happily compelled to simultaneously pursue?