“Gonna go hit the trails…” At this point, I suppose she wouldn’t have accepted any of my excuses. “If you can’t keep up with me, how can you keep up with our children?” I nodded in agreement and to my regret, declined on a second cycling lap. I was secretly saving energy for tomorrow’s better-late-then-never Spring cleaning.

All morning motivations were approached with kid gloves. Her weekend wasn’t about to be filled with the stresses of a typical work day. It’s a simple philosophy, but it makes all the sense. So, how would she spend her mornings? Certainly not in the local dog park considering we were cat people. Although from time-to-time a mysterious couple would be spotted laying in the grass with a grey kitty on a long blue leash, “Oh, what a pretty cat!” Yes, that couple was us.

Once she got past a few cups of coffee in bed with the Macintosh, a simple plan was put into effect. I put my military face on and gave the command. I’ll start at this end, you at the other and we’ll meet in the middle. We’ll clean everything in our path while grabbing anything that can be stuffed in a washing machine. A few flicks of the Music Choice channel, and we began.

An hour or so later, I had finished the bathroom and was well into the kitchen when I stumbled across a blender I purchased a few weeks ago. I was determined to break in this new machinery. “Let’s make piña coladas tonight?” Her eyes grew brisk. We weren’t much in the way of bartenders, but the idea of adding a new recipe to our repertoire gave us great excitement. Plus we welcomed the opportunity to add another bottle to our proud collection.

For a girl who came to this city with nothing more then a single suitcase, she sure managed to acquire a lot of things through the years. Probably why she was given the task of the bedroom. But unlike the typical human characteristic of collecting objects, she liked to keep her life simple. Although, clothing and jewelry might be considered a different story.

It took three inches of cat hair off the oriental antique rug to final reach her in the middle. She had just finished going through the mail. I noticed a few freshly sealed and unstamped envelopes on my side of the bed, a clear indication of what was expected of me in the morning. After all, she could never find a postal box in this town.

Hunger set in after we left the first load at the laundromat. Normally it would have been a fine afternoon to cook, but we decided not to dirty our cleaning efforts. There will be plenty of time for that by the cats later. Instead, we enjoyed a simple meal at the local bagel place. For us, it was never too late for any item on a breakfast menu. We sat in the back under the ceiling fan next to a large ice machine, which later I commented about getting one for our apartment. She looked at me like I had ten heads. I like my carbonated drinks extra cold.

On our way out, we grabbed a few empty lottery tickets and asked the teller which was best to play. She shared the common dream of striking it rich but for uncommon reasons. Sure, traveling the world sounded nice. Saving every feline in Manhattan, that’s going to take a little more work, but I would like to think she knew that my unconditional support was always with her. In retrospect, the thought of probability versus utter chaos baffles me. A million-to-one random occurrence could leave ones life either purposelessly over-joyed or completely shattered. But what do I know, mathematics were never really my game.

I had my errands to do but they would have to wait. After a buzz of the iPhone alarm, we went back to the laundromat and retrieved the massive heap of overheated laundry. The focus of my errands was interrupted by her request to help with a few tasks unachievable alone. We lifted the heavy box spring and set the top sheet. I was instructed to reassemble the futon on my return. Reaching first for my errands list then for the doorknob, I heard her voice in the distance. “Would it be okay if I went out for a run?”

I’ve always had a great appreciation for her gestures. It was evident she did not need my permission but this showed a polite, perhaps even old fashioned style that I never took for granted. It was the thoughtfulness that reinforced my sense of importance. “Of course,” was my response and I left.

Okay, fishing-line to hang the pow-wow crystal stone, reed diffuser to replace the vintage cracked vase from Ruby Lane, calligraphy pen for a new design to give her star and dolphin tattoos some company, and a black backpack which could come in use to carry all of this home. Oh and let’s not forget the pineapple and the coconut, main ingredients for our evening drink of choice. But how long was I at the supermarket? I would have never thought to keep those receipts for investigation, in order to provide an exact location in time.

My first impulse as I opened the apartment door was of an anxious void. I stopped for a moment then quickly replaced the thought with remembrance of her last words. As I looked up at the bedroom, her final efforts amazed me. I could not remember a time when the bedding had ever looked any better. The pillows were packed perfectly against the freshly tucked comforter, ending with a gentle tight fold of the eggplant-colored fleece at the foot of the bed. The idea of sharing this plush wonderland with her tonight filled me with warmth.

I hastily unpacked the goods, casting a small rainbow on the hardwood floor after hanging the crystal stone on the window sill. I placed the calligraphy pen on the bed as a notion of inspiration. Gathering the sparkling new blender and cutting board, I set them next to the ingredients on top of the John Boos butcher block. After taking a deep sniff of the diffuser, I thought it would be better to wait for her approval before pouring the contents into the new vase. I fed the cats, although François was totally uninterested, put the cover back on the futon, and then sat at my computer in the office.

Routine signals often fail to break the distraction of electronic devices. Without the reference of her exact time of departure, it took the drop of the sun for me to understand something was very different. It’s a natural instinct to toy with the worst possible scenario. Once the worst is thought of we quickly scout through the more feasible alternatives. I’ve never been much of the over-protective type and I wasn’t about to start now.

I decided on a quick walk up and down the block, giving her a chance to sneak in behind me, perhaps with an unusual but excusable excuse. On my return I checked the bathroom for the fifth time, longing to hear the sound dripping from the shower head. No clues other than a charging cell phone and a silver case filled with identifications. I returned to the front stoop.

I sat and thought of what one could accomplish within an hour’s length of time. I figured many things could fit within that time frame, which led to my decision of that particular duration. Although not a terrible amount of time, I wasn’t asking for much. I didn’t count the cigarettes, but sixty minutes ticked faster than what I had imagined. Once the last allowed second was up, I began the construction of my white flag; for something was definitely wrong.

It began to rain. I managed to dig up our old umbrella along with an imaginary handbook and I set off. I was in no hurry to reach my destination and was quite hopeful to be interrupted along the way. It wasn’t long until I passed the large lit letters reading Emergency, rejoining with mankind. I figured this would be fast. Surely somebody in here could tell me I have come to the wrong place and I can set path back home to the fresh sound of the running shower.

I muttered a name to the security guard and he checked his records to find no match. The response was good enough for me to happily escape, until I remembered the silver case. He handed me the receiver of his telephone and I repeated my cause to the voice on the other end. The word “jogger” led me to be transferred to another voice. After another repeat of my story, I was advised to come to the hospital. I informed him I was already standing there. He asked to speak with the security guard so I handed him the receiver. He hung up after a brief conversation and asked me to follow him.

I followed, absorbing only what I could process. Awaiting a punch-line to this cruel practical joke, passing bright lights I was eventually instructed to stop. As the security guard left, another faceless being approached. He or she raised a fist full of keys, unlocked the door titled Family Comfort Room and then disappeared.

I entered the room. Panic would not allow me to sit so I quickly propped the door open with my umbrella and escaped back into the hallway. I remember thinking they must have me mistaken for someone else. Someone will help me understand, but I wasn’t about to ask the nurse wheeling that poor body covered in white sheets. My rationality was not about to make a connection. Then the physician came.

“…dolphin and a star.”

We all reside on a celestial body rotating around a gargantuan sphere consisting mostly of hydrogen and gas. At least that’s what I’m told. And as this giant rock gyrates its annual revolution, we experience an environmental change based off of the axis, or better know as obliquity. Temperatures change and most organisms continue their life cycles.

Curiosity beckons, what odds would be on this systematic process malfunctioning. I understand skipping winter this year is improbable, but can the jade pigment of chlorophyll be preserved for just a little longer? I have no need for photosynthesis. Oxygen only helps me breathe.

Self-centered you might say. Don’t look at me. Blame the flux of foliage for its egotism, hibernating away within its metabolic depression. It craves to embellish that distant springtime. Well I opt for tossing wrench into this time and space. I’ve grown nauseous from the dizziness and demand it all to stop. Evidently despite my request, this blue planet keeps spinning its way towards the sun.

Days, weeks, months, years, all organized with human precision. Arithmetic and astronomical calendars attempt to pin-point every detail of our existence. Obsessed with this never ending archive, I feel we have become dependent on the mere thought of passing time. Whatever happened to the idea of eternal youth? Perhaps they finally figured out that immortality is just as useless as the concept of infinity.

To my knowledge, we are the only species to record our own birth dates, “Happy Birthday.” People have been offering me that age old expression all day long. Everybody, excluding one.

Truth is, I don’t care to spend another one without her.

Could you teach me black magic? Because I know a few people that deserve a good suffering. And if there is a Hell, perhaps they could spend a little time there, if not an eternity. Flames would ignite the fuel of their selfishness as the malevolent spirits watch them burn.

I am no judge and unfortunately morality and ethics are rarely considered common sense. Compassion is not mandatory, nor is punishment. I suppose karma could exist on some surface level. Even scraped off the bottom of the gene pool, which I have always considered a basic form of Purgatory.

For whatever book people may follow, I get it. Men have built their chapels with intense height and I understand the reasons why. They are all very lovely tales and I appreciate the devotion towards sharing optimism, but I’m not about to ask for anyone’s patience. Perhaps I never took my methylphenidate on theological Saturdays.

Don’t you think I want to look at the clouds and see angels? Even now, when a little space has been cleared on my right shoulder. Blue eyes, round face, transparent hair. Kiss the sky stranger, there’s nothing to see here. Nothing but a shatter delusion of what humanity might have been. That percussionist showed little mercy of what’s left of my tired and weakened backbone, like a toneless battered xylophone.

So now is your chance, courter. Disregard our shared denial of the deity, perchance that mythical verse can conjure up one single truth. No need to wallow in the pain and sorrows of this conscience reality anymore. I will summon the durability to absorb this burden just long enough for you to make a swift escape.

Wide glassy eyes, look into mine. I promise you no more sadness.

I wrote a letter to a dear friend many years ago. Intentions of this notion are remembered as if yesterday, although the detailed context may always remained out of focus. The solo connection to our past required a final idea, an attempt of communication despite the fact those words would never be read. I sealed the envelope and tucked it safely within his wooden casket shortly after his passing. Eighteen years ago today, the song ended.

Isolation can prove itself somewhat effective, a simple remedy applied to the hardships of human interaction. Could it be the emotional strain of loneliness that leads us to amity? After all, life-spans tend to vary in large distance, but for most, expectancy is statistically greater. Theoretically, a lengthy duration could leave the individual compelled to make closer connections. These infliction are most likely due to the result of phycology, biology and nature. Empathetic ties are created, beauty and laughter are shared, and moments of devastation and desperation are willingly supported.

Upon recent tragedy, safety was feared unattainable. A vital exit could not be achieved. Nevertheless, through the terrifying barricade of shock and disillusion, the transmission of a simple promise was received. Comforting actions and reactions were derived from a few choice individuals. As this rarity flourished, my ideals began the reconstruction of unconditional love, trust and honesty. The devotion towards an immediate sense of urgency has been embedded within my heart and mind, indefinitely. Perhaps it is the guardians fundamental fear of closure that has kept me alive today. Regardless of motive, it is to my wish that the extension of gratitude be considered sincerely endless.

Where the fuck was I eighteen years ago?

Once dubbed as your pillow, we laid motionless until rejuvenation and slumber. Breathing in, then out. Warmth exchanged, tightly entwined beneath the cathode flashes that illuminate the walls of our apartment.

Now this weary head rests upon your calloused shoulder; long, drawn, bleached white and draped within a relentless starch. Attempting to reassembly my previous visions, these eyes resort to an anemic squint. Questioning if pain is suppressible, begging for last embrace; on sentience decline, the failed puppeteer cuddles close to begin its necrotic convulsion. My body has grown too weak to carry you home.

Imperfect in rhythm, the melodic harmony has little expectation of response. Years of a voice, those sweet nothings in which I always listened and adored, perhaps audibility will resurface. For now, too much to say, and with lips pressed against your forehead, my repetitious monologue can only continue in babbled whispers.

Focused touch of a cradle, brushing the mane of your auburn and pink streak. Texturally it feels consistent. As for the rest, anhydrous and arctic, minus the application of lachrymation. It drips from glassy eyes to yours, washing away the burgundy of stains and bruises. Drenched in liquid, sobbing an ocean moist enough to fill this bright and morbid room. Deep enough for us to both float away.

So let us set sail, projecting shadows upon the reflective sands. Our voyage is at the mercy of my tide, leaving nothing but a long silver trail behind us. Remaining wayward castaways to the far distance, drifting aimless until we both sink like precious lost treasure.

The cost of one decaffeinated is the new day rate for the homeless. Their hub connections are often sluggish but temporarily trump the daunting alternative. Complex role reversal of my once dependable shelter has released a bird of passage. Desensitization is perhaps achievable after extreme exposure, but only bearable in minute doses. As procrastination manifests into inevitability, time still insists on passing. If nothing, this nomadic lifestyle has proven I can still exist on a raw molecular structure.

Once that instinctive impulse of protection was rendered a fail, bereavement injected and drafted a vacuous course. Surging through tangled wires, pulmonary and umbilical, expanding grasp and tightening with the clots flow. Escalating pressure forces reanimation of mobility. Dextral limb crosses sinistral, mindless and robotic. Rust deems futile, immune to seize, for this hydroelectric crank abducts solarization from a sleepless sun.

Fresh faces, familiar intentions, flickered glimpses from flipping pages. Natures mold so vast but incomplete. Sunrise, sunset, my physical form wanders into empty wonder.

C’e la luna amante. Spread those angelic gifts and soar. Parachute of cargo, grasp tightly upon my tender collarbone and push this mortal through the stratosphere. Dust to clouds from the river of remains; I’ve grown fond of the apsara in you.

Fatigue wound by intoxicated thrust, tracing maps of the uncharted skies. Infinite intelligence proves nothing compared to our pursuit, imbecilic to who is chasing whom. A mere flutter from your winged grace bids all adieu, as we restlessly circle the incandescent moon.

Another safe landing with repeated apologizes. You know I couldn’t have been more efflorescent. My seraph and the initial inquisition, are there any remnants unresolved?

I’ll save the best part for last; and in my retort, no it never has to end.

Over-populated yet so alone. From an ulterior frame of reference, this city reeks of pseudo motive. I witness the grand design snickering in observation, as the excessively labored transform into the immensely medicated. Functional I suppose, but to what purpose? Regurgitating cannibals express undoubted perseverance; perhaps within the recycling of our own wasted consumption lies the true meaning.

All just an alienated and jaded point of view, right? Small matters; that is how the careless expression goes. Well, I know of someone who would have greatly disagreed. Evidence of this has been documented in her secret mouth-to-ear diary. This is no interpretation, it is common physics; all safely locked away within the widowers cerebellum.

Self-pity is often the drug of choice; but once you are finished indulging, may I reflect some of her utter disappointments? So many lead to quick and easy decisions. Shall I expose how she truly felt about your relations or do you prefer a sympathetic stream of white lies? With discretion towards our abstruse journal, I chose the latter.

Well, it looks like the revolvers whirlwind has vacuumed yet another drifter. Aspired to a Russians roulette, you may remain impregnable. Her authenticity withers with me, even after the fifth fortunate click of the unspun trigger.

Impatience dominates, is it my turn yet?

Airwaves filled with acoustic vibration guide a drunken stupor, as the disheveled man begins to dance. Eyes closed, arms vacant, extension from his suffocated lungs stretch out into a heart-shaped pose. Spinning uncontrolled across the broken glass; waltzing a mystic silhouette of imagination. The empty corner tolerantly awaits for his staggered return.

Another evening well spent with memories. Joys and mishaps weighed carefully atop the scale of distant chapters. It must be braved, although often risky; especially within the reflection of a double-edged razor.

Melancholia interruption. Curse the cheating whore, for that adhesive bled out in the tub many years ago. Ash spiraled down the motel drain, beside the cigar burning from both its ends. Mourning a life that was never meant to flourish; one million thanks for an equal amount of paths leading furthest away.

But leading where? Off to exile, or so the man thought. Then came along this, a bride of sunshine; and one crinkle of laughter set urgency to close every bar in town. Your gentle company taught this gambler liberation and tamed his tenebrous eclipse.

Each moment savored within a shortened choreography, embodiment pleads for an everlasting juncture. Solo i buoni muoiono giovani. Ineptly, it wasn’t nearly enough time.

Five days in, resting on three months later. No disrespect in reference intended, I know nothing could lay comparison to the suffering of Auschwitz; for she never cared much for supreme authorities anyway. Surprisingly, the electric was still active. Disgust festers in cogitation of what might be rotting amidst the icebox. Overhauls equal necessity and futons now belong to the kitchen; do you like what I’ve done with the place?

Mingus temporarily placed upon the top-shelf, the early frequencies of Geddy and Geezer take front stage; “her life was saved by rock ‘n’ roll”. A genre congested with lyricists conducting the decisive mood; but far too often instruct the listener how to feel. The repeat button serves an excellent antidote for any bipolar disorder, although metathesiophobia will remain stagnant rather then stable.

Ethanol and nicotine have carelessly superseded all faint scents of feline. Much like Sisyphus, within a disposition that cannot be controlled; only to be contently accepted. Betwixt and between the human condition, I wear my talisman tight and continue copulating this malignant fantasia. Naturally, all personal ventures lead somewhere.

She always cherished the soft mixture of vibrant hues, but sadly we were unable to keep tulips due to the toxicity. Of course wildflowers were a consistent favorite. My initiation began with pink roses; and if you know the spot, you’ll find a makeshift vase fastened to the fence wrapping the corner. Keeping beauty fresh would be the perfect match for her allure and artistry.

Witness the corpse of Bonnie Parker; “wherefore art thou Barrow”, spoken with infamous recognition. What costume do you fancy this Hallows’ Eve? A ghoul, a ghost, perhaps a priest of conjuration; frightening all the same, albeit suitable aside this Festival of the Dead.

Samhain furnished with revered saints, begins entrance into another darker half; subsequently marking end to this pathetic harvest. Go ahead, fabricate in celebration; transform into something horrifically abnormal and unordinary. I have chosen a crepuscular shelled creature as my disguise. Holidays will do their worst; a lesson unwisely divulged from this self-proclaimed tortoise.

Basking amidst Anatta, the martyr turtle sets dawdled pace towards a remorseless winter. A husky exoskeleton has proven much stalwart, armored for an otherwise terribly flawed endo. Lost in reverie, heavy footsteps attempt the abandonment of a prematurely aged persona. Weathered to translucent, dilatory journeys embark for burrows of a testudinidae utopia.

A brisk alloy from public engines, roll atop the vibrating shuffle; as the high-speed landscape morphs into the next upcoming town. Astonishing feat for a rustic track, all of which so carefully predestined. A simple clockwork guide for a plethora of endless transports, intensely over-relaxed but certainly always on-time. Headway full of gumption, a distant suburbia awaits; patience imperative for a locomotive vessel trapped in hasty lunge.

A holiday exodus served best for the urban masses, the great Manhattan escape, if you will. When skyscrapers shrink and sales pitches grow fainter, the eye candy tends to shift into the more elusive. Damn those vandals in disguise; for I have always been more partial to artistic graffiti over corporate advert. Perhaps its a successful sorcery among the walking demographics that I currently surround.

Revisit again, the final Thursday of November. A moment to reflect back to a perfect family; me, you, and the accompaniment of our six furry children. With all immediate gone, difficulty fares well against the thought of thankfulness.

Upon a much lighter side, an experience of a lifetime entwines internally within my heart; arguable to which some have never felt such bliss. Timeline at complete disregard, mere moments compared to extended years; truly wholehearted and unconditionally – I thank you my love, for your choice and absolute acceptance.

Take me with you or I will be left with little choice; a mortals gift forevermore shall shower this weakened earth. Magically, I fell upon unabridged agreement; a dusty cenotaph contested fruitless against cascading waterfalls. Utmost urgency set forth to an incomparable paramount; for only the finest will suffice. Amidst the umpteenth visitation, the park alliance came into realization of how extremely austere I was. Crowned the seasons ambassador; with honor, my every wish was gratefully granted.

A hidden guilt among the common populace, we all fantasize the attendance of our own funeral; it was an impressive outcome to say the least. With nixed eulogy prepared, I vaguely remember a watery improv. When time played the role of generosity, Prospect was always the runner’s desired destination; I’d like to think this reserve was your target intention.

So enlighten me, could a completion be served for a bipedal marathon? Within a liquid trance, I aspire your silence will thaw come springtime. For now, dress warm; for I can smell the untainted frost of an incoming storm. Daydreams to dusk; ashes to snowflakes – Happy Birthday, my icelandic princess.

If I put myself out-of-site, will the mind follow? An elicited truth could very well confuse Houdini for a simple novice. After all, the intellect naturally provides extreme conservation; capable of barricading us from any evil we wish to escape from. Smoke and mirrors are a cinch to harness, as we could conceal the factual knowledge of any given perception. On the contrary, it is the revelation of the unknown that holds the only true merit; untouched by influence, leading any virtuoso to its final masterpiece.

Let us take God for instance, or lack thereof; a marrow that may often camouflage its own paragon of deception. Mental masturbation for the most, blockage of enlightened potential for the remainder; despite its bliss of ignorance. Enough riddles, the point has been beating about the bush. Life and death apparently need to be explained, and as precious as both may very well be; a dominant entity must take full responsibility.

Which introduces the question, can a grieving infidel hate God? I am afraid the exhausting paradox has lead astray, even on a holy day. Theism appears to be the perk for an unhappy believer; dawning light on this tangible hatred. I have found neither stranger in blood nor next of kin may conduct such a false blasphemy. Antipathy will cloud prudence and the fundamental axiom of life will go unappreciated.

Catechetical instructions aside, living has become an illness; and raising the chalice of bitterness is only a small symptom. Left to the vices within a marination of filth, a potential false-advertising lawsuit merges for the surgeons general. Vulnerability lends hand to population control; homosexuality, infectious disease, self-termination, present company included. Natural science can hardly be understood, let alone domesticated. After mercy of macrocosm, what remains for the anal retentive; angels and demons?

A dark tachrichim hangs neatly in the closet; clarity will arise when time reaches the essence. Undoubtedly, vivacity will be my last will and testament.

Halfway through a year of magical thinking; at retrograde, my piquant receptors appear more besotted than ever. Short of being someone entirely different, perplexity of what is expected of me hemorrhages from mind. Circuitous but not entirely implausible, it is apparent to me that I do not hibernate alone.

Knee-deep within the personal estate of a bankrupted inheritance; I am the desolate keeper. Abandoned commodities play the role of secluded possessions; the mine, the yours, the ours. Dismally, this tragic cast performs upon a stage of invoked sadness; and never falls short of what kerosene and a match could remedy. Although I do embrace dearly, I would barter it all to erase the thought of losing you; even if for just one precious moment.

The more I empty this apartment, the more it resembles our first day of arrival. Upon a fresh homecoming, armfuls of sunlight eagerly anticipated the twain bright-eyed and kindled enthusiasts. It must have all been for the moment, for I could accuse anamnesis for being a devastating punishment; or perhaps I have mistaken the pain for longing. Regardless, the composition of memories is at harsh fault, even for significances you wish to never be forgotten.

Metal, wood, cloth and glass; is that all that remains to stow? The carousel ticks a notch to the left upon the mummification of another object; exposing light through the next transparent memory. No, I suppose a camera cannot be engineered for these sort of things. Nevertheless if the jewel of reminiscence is sought, inherent influence and affectability may be of some caliber.

Fatal embrace, immanence has deceives me. The mask of tragedy justified for an innocent heart; to Hell with the evasive and cliché explanation. Taste scorn as the spiral of transcendence is followed, exhausting every breath up to the very last. She I will find and the gates shall lay in lament, as I drag her back into existence.

Wake now valentine, with a slow augmented stretch. Heated fur from mornings light, the vast reach has been released; from cotton tomb arise. Dearly soft to the whiskers touch, you know a felines agenda was always gentle to occupy. Assuredly with purpose, for mice are far too stubborn to be caught on their own.

Lifeless still? Precarious how some wounds are harder to lick than others. Howbeit, never regret the unveiling of your fresh hiding spot; perhaps it has come time I shared upon you mine.

My winters sentence has expired, but failed to exempt this melancholy expression. An itinerary, to be wed this fair season of spring; deliverance of that unspoken vow had fatefully parted in passing. If growing ancient together stood no chance against kismet, then perhaps an anniversary such as this was only meant to mark the beginning of our story.

On to the tale; the fable of a shell-shocked boy and his invisible lass, a muse to marvel from an insecure distance. Naive to an unforgotten past, timid times beckoned for a salubrious voice; or prospective pen pal. Capable of only diluted drips; the subdued ink found passage down pure parchment paper. Ambiguous as predicted but attractive all the same; just enough to indulge and rattle ones curiosity.

After the clock had finally defeated obscurity; our metrical verses materialized into that very first glimpse, shyly beneath the lower east side lantern. Marvelous as you were, I thought we both carried ourselves ever so well. Comfortable was the opening intention, as I coveted you to be. But for I, mostly awestruck; bewildered to how someone could even give a damn about me. I fretted much and echoes remind me to this day still; counting the endless times my dinner utensils were nervously dropped. Gravity was completely nonsensical.

Was I to be blamed? The pretend poet was defenseless, stumbling for his true locution. Notably, moments like that are missed beyond the measure of words.

Brooklyn brownstones sailed across crooked cobblestones. It was a fine ship, all dressed to the nines; but one that must be abandoned by first morning light. A termites appetite subsisted well, feeding upon what was left of our vessels port and starboard. Ounce for ounce, the captains air-guitar was excluded from the manifest. Yes, it was a frivolous and scot-free talent. Pardon a sailors mouth, but I was pretty fucking good at it.

“I sense much anger in you”, opportunities to quote Yoda are few and far between; but have you ever tried opening a wine bottle with a hammer and a screwdriver? Not recommended. It was the same brute behavior that destroyed our beautiful french doors, not to mention a mass of carpus bone. Excuses bestow me, I’ve got the devil riding my back. Bastard whom spat inferno upon this last supper; gyoza, miso, edamame. It couldn’t possibly taste the same without my sweetest of friends.

It’s difficult to conceive, all of this gathered time; every transcending moment, every month in laborious passing. And to think, I was completely convinced; assured that the only way I was leaving this apartment was in a body bag. Reputably a shallow promise? Lore has it, the eye of the beholder may prefer his afterlife heated.

Thoroughly surveyed, there was no stone left unturned. An intense obligation made sure of leaving nothing behind, mentally recorded visions in particular. Problem is, those memories could only be played back through the interpreter; and a cabin fevered one at that. In ending, I leave tomorrow. Niche to be no longer, I surrender the unanswered questions. Who have I become? Why did I stay so long? And most importantly, what exactly was it that I was waiting for? As it may, totally unintentional; she never did walk back through that door.

So conclusion avast, the time has come; hoist those three sheets to the wind. Be patient, dear apprentice of the stranded. With mast buried in mud, the capsized view shall be ever so breathtaking.

It was the renouncement of a christian name; replacement of the heir, an inoperable stigma portrayed the sole beneficiary. Similar to most prologues, the trek began aboard a basic automobile. Consignment lullabied by miles of motor hum; an adolescent’s doze had awoken within the achromatized walls of involuntary confinement. Whereabouts played truant, for the absence of bread crumbs laid hindrance on any thoughts of escape. Insurgency towards the advocate ran amuck, detesting an evaluation term set by authority for the apparent lack thereof. In correction to a misguided teenaged maelstrom, wings of the innocence could only spread unclipped; and effortlessly blame trouble for being far too cheap and easy.

“Refute the cure for boredom,” claimed the rabid monkey, as he mischievously dangled atop ceiling pipes from above. Customarily, conduct as such adjudged a one-way ticket to the rubber room; which unlike popular belief of being padded, was simply not. Void of any plush comfort, the space was carpeted head-to-toe with a thick woven fabric; inadequate in absorption, as the pungent stench of human excrement was always prevalent.

Across cubic solitude, was the bedlamite’s porthole; wrought iron forged in intricate structure, as panes of an oriel-styled window stood tall. Beyond this, only prismatic light could exist. Invigorating slices of razor sunshine obscured all vision and optics, misconstruing those sought-after meadows of sovereignty; they would always remain undistinguished. A high tolerance for captivity was in development; it ran parallel with palpable moments of peace. And in due time, czars of innovation sat admirably. Once the mechanism bolted from behind with metallic click, the surrealistic world became ours for the taking.

I was a restless youth, to put it mildly, and hanging from the pipeline seemed like an amusing exercise in rebellious atrocity; at least up until the day my old roommate tried it. Escorted by an unyielding bed sheet knot, the vertical free-fall between a duet of dressers had snapped the buoyancy of two once very proud parents. In spite of evidence that governing a man’s prerogative has restrictions, I would imagine pink-slips for the administration became rather abundant. In return, the blind eye was immediately turned and all habitants were rewarded with a grace period of total anarchy. In regard to an individual and his personal liability, this was no cry-for-help; it was none other than a brilliantly executed exit strategy.

Present day, misplacement describes best the vertigo of waking in strange places. A manageable nausea up till the artless moment of realization that this unfamiliar berth is your new home. With rheum wiped twice, wormholes gently come to focus; it appears I have bartered the antique burial ground for an empyrean cosmic string. Physique at relative rest, cognition jounces through antagonizing coils of deja vu; traveling to a time when belts and shoelaces were as lost as I was.

This false philogynist feels the need to apologize, as for the harlot you’ve been hanging around bores me; but then again, I’m not the one fucking her. Perhaps the heat is causing hallucinations. Rituals of self-doubt require a bit more than just dotting the tees and crossing your eyes. What do I know? I was overly drawn to the one marooned adrift lady heels. Preen to the scene, as her floral skirt always attended the mosh fashionably late and slightly overdressed.

Picture an idea, the one that yearns to be missed; is it impossible to long for what one has never experienced? Predictions and expectations can often appear akin; suppositionally I’ve had my fair share of both. But then came the night God pissed cold rain; and I, baptized in vinegar as she fell just shy of three and a half decades. A debris disposition became as bitter as the pill swallowed; proscribing an entire world and all of its self-righteous preservation. By the same measure, I beseech; mail a post card the day you earn your wings.

Okay killer, victorious as you are; copilots and I; we shall travel the path of least resistance. Endowed with mort-waking engine and thunderbird-like wings, address us horizontally upon our fiberglass corpse. Perhaps there is more to this grease monkey than zippos, balisongs, and an unholy flask vacated by noon. With bohemian nation perched on the sideline, replete in its circle jerk amiss and tattooed bookworms; this convertible continental intends to abscond, rubbernecking credence as it is shrunk by rear-view mirror.

And then it all stopped; there was only the hue of white, dilated and lucid as the celibate snow. Forbearance cried a bereaved memoir, brimmed with babble only coherent to its rogue author. Now it vows silence to dusty footlights and crimson velvet, incarnating chance for another voice to be heard.

“I guess I used to think about doors that had closed instead of other ones that are standing wide open — does that come in a bottle, the sun, or with age? I can never be quite sure… I have all kinds of things I dream about doing. They are all the doors I am talking about. So many, all still wide open — across the world. As I think about her life, how it ended, but also how meaningful it was. And those two, they are moving there, how I hope they are safe, but at the same time I admire their fearlessness in the quest for the truth; in pictures and in writing.

So it remains, which ones? I like to think that perhaps I will open several of them. However, I’m the type of person to knock first.”

- Excerpt by Campbell, S. E.
1975 – 2010

Isolated in a lullaby of seclusion, to what breadth have I been set to drift? Consequently, a distance equal to the hair grown upon my chin. That slow drip, sustained salt twisted through precious pepper, it became the final defense for a conquered soldier. Completely absent, was I to be pardoned for my surrender? After all, an exponential mind could not possibly disregard an endless reservoir of magical thinking. Uniquely, the driftwood of my forsake had run full circle, crashing widowerhood against what appeared to be a premature shore. It was there, in that final moment; utterly vulnerable, in which I stood. And then came you, glimmering grace through your kaleidoscope of hope; the girl with the dragon tattoo.

I wanted nothing more then to fill a thousand journals with boundless words of devotion, but Barcelona ended up a hair shy then what my dreams had pictured. The only essence that lies beyond the iron curtain now is faith. No more promises, just ideas; and ideas can be just as beautiful. Will we ever build the fallout shelter to our imaginary apocalypse? Self-numb in the lush of our own translucent exposure, then perish hand in hand? Alas my darling, we all have our crosses to bare. Mine stands slightly tilted towards the west, driven as deep as my word; pressed upon those very shores in which you found me.

Dusk is approaching, my sweet entrantress of the setting sun. Loan me your elasticity for just a little while longer, for I grow weary of bidding farewell to things I love.

Some things are better left unwritten. An introverts prospective, but courteous enough to remain silent until something of interest can be said. Although, I cannot argue the possibility of a decent argument. To remain bound and wound, tighter then a jar of flies; is unpleasantly so. Timid to the flighty final moments just before it all goes to hell in a hand basket. The secret antidote may very well be to let it all go. Notoriously, that can often be the most challenging part.

Adjustment disorder? Seems logical enough, considering the only thing I find consistent is inconsistency. I’ve learned to carelessly accept, just in case it does hold merit for enjoying the simple things. But even after all precautions have been cast aside, we eventually find ourselves humming along to yet another restless tune, “near the end and just ain’t got the time”. Sounds vaguely familiar, as I am perpetually waisted and can never find my way home.

So, what are we so petrified of? A future copious of anxieties based off of our remote past? Surely not a way to live. Uncanny to a sadistic pattern that blocks the purest existence of the present. The now, this very moment; it is the only reality we can ever exist in. All else is false, make believe; the unobtainable silver screen moment. And even that moment has just preciously pasted.

A fine-tuned instrument; this body may grow frail but if I keep my mind keen and salient, the endeavors of the kindred heart may eventually prevail.

Decisions, not a strong suit of mine. But the one to keep you alive? “Unkind” was the choice word used, resting between syllogism and veterinarial advisement. In retrospect, a thought to all the personal effects in my life that need to be euthanized; you my gentle friend, were never one of them. But short of a torturous preservation; options run scarce and limited time has been critical placed on hypothetical.

My request, remember me not as this grim personification. For I am nor judge, nor jury; merely just another executioner. And as the final drop of indigo fluid trickles through the glassy coma of pentobarbital, there won’t be the slightest of victories. Only hypocritical guilt and shame; along with the overwhelming desire to never be asked of the horrific things that I have done.

If the verve of permanence is one continuous line, then why do we fall victim to our own pre-marked intervals? Time will assiduously flow, no breath shorter than the last. A pause in this, virtually impossible. However, imagine for just a brief moment; if we could. What then? And in which space would we seize our true sanctuary; the one between the tick and the tock or the one few and far between? Consider it then, this unutilized dimension may very well occupy the most elementary of explanations. All in all along little choice, we all abide by the same physics; repeatedly collecting the milestones of our own anthropomorphic achievements. The definition of a transpicuous ego? Perhaps it is the notion of self-worth that keeps us tiptop and at our moral best.

Are we ever fully rehearsed to grow senile? Foreboding thought, but why stop now? Implied that life is an endowment, for whatever ecclesiastical reason. Think of all the beautiful things one would have missed if they started out a miscarriage. To what unknown fragrance are these mysterious roses capable? But unfortunately, there is no yin without yang; and never do hardships run sparse. Death and betrayal bares mind; enough to spawn a hatred that exudes from our turbulent skies. Perchance unjust, but a balance none the less; existing far before birth and perseverant millenniums after our demise. Half empty or full, we can always take pride within the context of our own free will.

My thoughts, howbeit absurdly obtuse; fester within the privacy of my own mind. Has the sense of self gone completely awol from sanity? I have been breaking my teeth on the ideals of a consummate life; reprehensible for chasing a heart draw in a deck full of spades. But enough dampish wallow, the brakes were purposely never installed. With linchpin securely locked, we’re off to the next decade. All the demission and even more revisions; we can’t imaginably stop now. The unappreciated privilege? Do what you will with it. For me, I feel I am just getting started.

Just in the nick of callous deadlines, a delinquent penalty would have equaled yet another unwritten year. Although, within what words would one of this stature deserve? Details graciously spared from audience, as lack of clemency was upon me. All evidence would have suggested, or even foreshadowed it; mindfully forgetting any given time in which I had ever claimed ownership. It was merely the most basic of promises, simply just be there; by heavens split, I surely was. Still and all, never would I deny the intimate right to faithfully soul search. Although strut lightly thereupon my dearness, as one may be surprised of what they might find.

All just thoughts, midst an exorbitant time of masterful gathering. I suppose a fair method of figuring things out. Inconspicuously amongst many, there is still one that eludes me. It is the validity of our own discreet and private indulgence, that I brave to question. Theories widespread, but what exactly governs them? I always liked to think it was something more than just a self-serving Darwinian instinct. Yet the frailty of being human will heedlessly do what it does, barren of any constraint or consideration. Then again, these observations come from a man living beneath the shadows of a fictitious devotion. Exhaling life and honor unto his personal Sistine; proudly painting homage to the one and only one, whom never strayed. 

Have I become detached in this? Some paradoxical faulty life-way, proportionate to that of a godless priest; unfastened from biologies that spawned our very existence? With zero capacity to judge or even pardon, I unavailingly search for any ulterior. An incessant mission, furnished in scrupulous vows designed to render all else buoyant; self excluded. Is it altruistic or anarchic? One could never be too sure. Any glint of vacancy dims on reasonable thought when it comes to my Achilles heel; the tender spot in which a youthful heart once beat. 

River ships, loosely wound, playfully jitter and playfully jounce. Concave in shape as lentil in color, a blind fleet surrenders to the rhythm of liquid vibrato. A pond to occupy their safe passage, all dismissed by the touch of a gentle finger. First in growing circles, as waves of expression are soon to follow; like curtains of foliage revealing all in which it has been preciously hiding.

With watery drapes fully undrawn, the new days stage is nearly set. By submerge view, image is only conceived in flicker; on the contrary to underwater silence which is always perfectly audible. Hereafter amidst bubble and foam, an anticipated audience awaits. Somewhere between the beneath and the all encompassing above, the moment has finally proven itself to be just right.

Encore to another inspiring escape? I bet you had them all captivated, even if just for a little while. For all the world’s preparation and practice could never hold candle to the naturality of your luminous artistry. Notably convinced by my own distant listeners; as they shall always graciously applaud. However in the same measure, they are apologetic all the same. Forgive me for my invisibility, as for my price of admission was not yet fully paid.

A kodak terrain for the timid, we walk and they follow. Step by step, as we crush the blacks of our playful contrast, they still follow. Through expired film, we shift landscapes of an auburn sky, and yet they still follow.

Underexposed however picturesque, apertured enough to sense their bashful presence. A mystery in motive, shadowed by the sluggish taffy of a distant past. Withal if one had to guess, perhaps it’s the aromatic trail they pursue.

The one of friendly fresh fallen cinnamon.

The most polite of inquiries, doctor. Minus formalities, is my father truly the sickest patient in your emergency room? Being that you are so absolute, one could still attempt a convincing argument. A simple redirect towards my mother’s chart may prove to be quite persuasive. Of course a jest best kept to one’s self, either falling to deaf ears or being deeply misunderstood. After all, who am I to compare a little kidney failure to pancreatic stage four?

So is that it, breakfast with friends then dinner with ancestors? A brother, a sister, both husband’s in hand, a daughter with child, and a son. What of them? Ignorant enough to ask, I’ve never been much for explanations, just a small sorrowful knack for rhetoric questions. Perhaps it’s the fear that keeps us so blinded, petrified to trickle luminance upon an answer. Even when nurturing the absence of light, it still remains the only answer I’ve know to be so aggressively true, for so very long.

Within the wake of our heritage, an ode chimes to a woman. The woman to whom I’ve know the longest. On the bright, you were always the sharpest end of the sword. Respect, honor, love; countlessly earned and always well deserved. Although our yesterday is history, tomorrow is all but a faint mystery. Will it take boundless strength? Perhaps …or maybe just enough to murmur those ever so confident words; fuck goodbyes, fuck mortality, and most of all, fuck cancer!

Shroud your precious eyes from the presence of false suns, beat this and we will meet again in the shade.