I had come to that stage. Where I would crinkle inside. With little or no supervision. Recreating a sound. Like these sheets you’d hung out. On a line about trees. On page either one or two out of. Two, maybe three. Where the air would get knocked out of them. As you’d wait at the gate. The rust starting to aggravate, eventually grate. Or you’d mastered the game. Of tag with yourself. Your heart as large as an enemy target. Or something else entirely. And as red as some danger. They’d teased out the sun. With designs on my innocence. Always second guessing my send offs. Like the time I had stood on a chair. To dust off the overhead light. And was given the smallest of something. Of an acceptable read. On that which your world once held dear. Or I’d sung out its anthem. Though, while mathematically sound. Was so silently white. My lungs wouldn’t side with it. And my ears would deny ever hearing. Even when banging along with it. With a spoon or a spotlight. On a pot or our battle plans. Waking the moon from where it napped. Within the folds of your apron. Like the dream of an apple. An apple made in the image. Of Adam’s first kiss. Its peels a snowless alp on your lap. Enough so, it still makes me swoon. Just to say it. Try to round off in my mouth. To the nearest of zeros. Staying true to the flea. Circus I joined as a fetus. My clown-self. My hero-self. At the same time, I willingly. Hit these falsest of notes. Fall, mercifully to sleep. Once discovering by accident. The link between the memory of the tides. And its dance with immortality. And how I lied about everything. The sweetness I’d lost on my tongue. And the aftertaste, from which I’d later be, unceremoniously stung.

It still went and changed all the locks. And took down all the likenesses of me. It had hanged on the wall. Anything that had put us together. In the same place. At the same time. The clock no longer looking at me. And thinking me cool. Not like when we were enrolled in the same high school. And they chose us king and queen. At the Day Light Saving Time Dance. But how it showed me. Years later. When its big hand was on the savings account. And its little hand on the stocks. The gig was not only up. But that eternity, as we’d long thought of it, could use a rest. The clock had stopped keeping me. Up at all hours. With what we considered our song. Our short answer to night. With the dawn, walking out. Having me talk to its lawyer. To see who would end up with the house. All the children. And the cat who acts like he cannot hear me. As I tell him to stop attacking the rug.

Your arrows didn’t worry me. Or your drawn sword, your words. But your bites did. Your pencil stabs to the back. Your utter lack of a call and response and/or your stuttering. Even with the backyard soon coated with barrenwort. The sun doting on a family of toads. Or the sparrow, wrapped in Easter paper, fighting to have his notes end up on stone. Today only, he’s my gummy bird and my guide. An ancient nuisance dug out from the ruins. To sign off on the heights of the universe’s unsightliness. For tomorrow, little new will come to light. Or shake off the predictability of night. So, act up soon! You think I felt unreal earlier? Leased by this funhouse of dealers? You should see the worm I dreamt up in my marrow just this morning. Another clown seemingly woke from the worst of my dreams. In one sense, opting not to opt. In another, topping everything that tried singing before it. As of this minute, I’ve narrowed its name down to either “Kid Out of Sync” or “Engineer King.” But never, never quote me on this. The only wrong that I’ve righted had me losing my sight. Which I’d talked down from my soul. So, tell me, what gives in your throat? A t-shirt? A tote bag? A stuffed animal voted favorite by America? In theory, all of it. But as for the president of the after party, none of the above. Another white feedback form loved well. Beyond recognition.

One ex left me. With the idea I had talent. And though I had delved into this fantastical world. Of talking trees, elves. I felt I had an even velvet-ier self. Hidden, somewhere inside of me. Like a chest of jewels. Or a belly full of Black Label. And another ex left me. Taking only the sketches. I had sketched of our dog. This God forsaken dispenser of drool. That fetched only chickens. And left the yard dreary. With ossified dental floss and soft drink containers. Turned up sod. And that I would gladly give up. For a hole or some dinner. And one ex had left me. Only asking for an abstract. Painting I painted. On that cardboard that comes with a dress shirt. Black and serpentine green. I wouldn’t part with it for anything. Representational anyway. But still haven’t looked at it till this day. And another ex had left me. Because she only had enough love or room for her personal savior, Jesus. And not even the smallest of likenesses. And yet another had left me for the idea of talent. After posing for a sculpture, I had sculpted out of soap. Which she washed down to nothing in less than a month. Leaving me with a shower ring, rope. And my last ex had hopefully left me. Trying to entice her. To take half of our art. But she lived in a trailer. And didn’t even have. Enough room for Jesus. Never mind another fool. Created supposedly in His likeness.

It was a retraction. An activity I now took to be uncalled for. Yet another fact, not anywhere near as much fun, as we had once thought. Then they went and scratched me off the cast listing. To make room for a limousine ad. And the souls of the actors who’d left us far too early. So now, in the first act, I’m only an apostle. This near-stop in play. And the last follower of Christ to wear head gear fashioned out of wool. Taste His blood in my soft drink. The tide so low, I could still see where the sandpipers had slowed down. Only to be gowned in the sun’s light. Won over by giddiness. Where the shipwreck had repositioned itself. Long enough to be pecked at by the wind. And where I’d try to rinse that crosshair out of my eye. Though this still isn’t a retraction. A square vacated by the piece of fluff that had come to rest there. Or another request, lacking the completed form, laughed off uncontrollably. While now, in the second act, I’m an understudy for Christ. The secret word the tech world lowered its character minimum. The next-in-line to bottom out. Be so outmoded I’m doomed. To tap into this tomb-like application again. The tide so high I can no longer see where the sandpiper passed his wand over the sand. And made several stripes. Followed by lots of dots. That would fail us as verse. Serving only to inspire us. To dig deeper with our shovels. Targeting the chill and the absence of life. With a love that is greater than all the hearts. Given a start by this performance. God knows, I need to do something different with my wardrobe.

I was suctioning my lips to the tank-glass. And stuck again giving thanks. To an angel fish. Shying away from me. At the same time, it eyed me. Sized my metaphors up. So that I drew my hands back. Cashing in my rewards. As its fins shift from algae-green to scum-yellow. Suffocating me with just the thought of its wings. The song its gills sing. And are still lingering today. And then have my picture. Taken with this devil fish. As it glides to some promotional music. Minus actual musicians or tropes. It can hear through an air shaft. For what stinks of eternity. This mock universe coming to rest on a stake head. The sands of time raked. Into trenches or Yes, stars make a mess of night. And no, the moon isn’t swallowed by rings. But just maybe, the sun has turned on us. Later, learning from the autopsy. It was merely a pillow. Filled with credit slips and dust. Or, more a toy-sun. Stuffed, with mis-fingered rosary beads. Or even more a flotation device. When asked what it wanted to be. In its next life. It being so dark, one flirts with the idea. Of being committed. Fitted for the cutest of little black suits. But for now, let’s cut to the seals. Outside in the parking lot. Being tucked in by volunteers. Their eyes, the start of planets. Their whiskers, kissed with some indecipherable light. As they fin-slap at the concrete. Painted with rockweed and kelp. A sign telling the help. To please use the back door. This gull laughing it all off. As we fall into line. A speaker discovering its lost voice. The only thing we can make out. Is there anyone out there. Missing a small boy.