From catastrophe to peace, whine to weary, whimsical to hardy, the environ most often makes the man. We plan as we hope to make the most of each opportunity but most clarity comes in realization that what we thought we could produce was way less than was adequate to fill most wish lists. At time of execution the unexpected hurry or collateral influences traditionally make short work of folly filled expectation’s. Just once would be sufficient to see something happen according to plan just to say that the possibility does in deed exist.

Bred for cannon, made for mystery and headed into the mouth of oblivion, my pride becomes torch and my regret forgotten as unimportant to the task at hand. Inclined to bravery on paper and comedy in repose I witness the cross between organic ministry and a ill choreographed dance video with people a bit too large to sell copies. Where is the fan fare? Who’s brought the diamond ascots and Italian leather shoes when it comes to intel and reason? Skirting the critics I bid them quickly rush out platters of olive drenched hors d’oeurves and begin filling drinks til they wave off the servers. What makes a party but over indulgence and soon the bleary eyed addicts are apparent heir to the cloister that was once intended as academic.

Tomorrow, the discussions brief as the sun and dry heat remind all how many years have passed since they pulled all nighters. A stroke of wisdom and none share your own regret but rather are catapulted in personal nightmare at work, play or castle. We all must refrain from willful resumption of the self servant business of social importance, but many will wait until Dracula beats them to bed before learning the lessons of mid life. What hopes have those who look to the weekend for reaffirming life’s misery only to find that its promised release only means greater captivity come Monday morn? Gone the immortal belief system of youth replaced with the I will get a few and be gone by 9:15 safely home by ten, gone to the pleasures of snoring dreams and a morning where I still have some function.

What damsels defended what pride burst what wagons unrutted or grand fish to be caught bought of the robust tales of would be acolytes? Meaning in mourning yawning in warning they parade round the room in search of slayable dragons or easily plied women born of a silly romanced imagination as passage to paradise. Bad boys gone and the fawn to frail for the dance we collapse into the hopeful hands and demands of someone who couldn’t pronounce my name half sober and definitely could write or type with either twisted set of fingers. These are the days of marvelous words spoken in self interest for the sole purpose of winning from the ground the cupie doll or fealty or adoration. This is not young desire to find oneself validated by those grateful onlookers but the sad, dismal attempt of the unwanted to justify themselves among the list of has-beens’ and morons left wanting. No escape no remorse no recourse but another bold attempt at conquering the world in the daylight.

What was served, what grand intention displayed, what philanthropic mission written successfully into the annals of the wealthy? Who bought what with borrowed time, money or intellect only to find they traded up with intention of selling all they had and moving to Belize. Now finding a life of fealty and praise a new Queen or tyrant served for the cause of believing that Nirvana simply resides beyond the curvature of the globe and someday soon will see that our folly was best. It didn’t please me not because there were no prize in my category or that the acting gig displeased me but to the word waste I must assign option. Time my only asset and it in scarce season what then would I such one extra breath while it counted me foolish for missing the pearl’s great wisdom. What is buried for keeping must not have been lost for the cause of decay or renewal but for the enunciation of life’s breadth, depth, length, width and longevity across the tapestry of linear, illogical space.