leave fingernail marks on your soul mate to the beat

Drowning in blankets of red patterns, and a blue one around my feet for safe measure from a kitten, my nostrils were adhering to the airborne remnants of a woodstove. I peaked out the blinds, rubbed my fingertips across the window surface for a clear view of a neighbor clearing his drive way. The type that you'd expect to be wearing an ascot and hoisting a snifter of brandy. Smug. An avuncular old gent. I stared up at stucco and listened intently as a shovel damned a layer of ice in rhythmic fashion in the early afternoon. It forced you to leave finger nail marks on your soul mate to the beat. Like all the punk bands that grew out of contempt for the incomparably deluded frat boys and prissy, politically correct dilettantes who these days pop collars and rock Uggs. The ice was a tendency, the motion of the shovel was the irresistible tendency to leverage out a trend. It was a fresh sound that reminded me of the frantically turning wheels of my childhood.
A run of the mill Tuesday in 1988 was like watching painted grass drying, while growing. I remember riding my Big Wheel down Bridle, holding the handles like a grudge and achieving little success at the art of traction, pebbles distracting the purpose of my underachieving plastic tires. Feet dragging, the white noise of peddles spinning like a tripped out Ferris wheel in a Terry Gilliam flick. I would end up on my side, most days, in a king size unmade flower bed of a one armed bachelor next to a pumping station by the lake. The fall down was virginal beauty off the rails. The blood from my nose was the breakfast of champions. The neighbors mutt, at this point, was charging the gate like a Visa with speed lines along a collar that resembled a hanging grape with a splash of fire. The pebbles that threw me off course made a new colony in my open knee. The mongrels mouth pressed through the rusted steel gate as if mashed potatoes through the prongs of a fork. His bark, a power line snapping in a pool of rain. His single armed feeder mirrored his angst through a kitchen window, mourning the transplanted ladino clover his bed once blanketed. It wasn't the type of expression that would get him a quick loan at the bank, that's for sure. The vinyl sides of pre-World War houses became the urban sprawl horizon for a boy on his side basking in the sound of spinning wheels coming to a halt. These moments remind me of the rarefied air of Paul Newman. There's a romantic cache I seem to give them. Like the feeling you get when you watch the 'Sandlot'.
The hole in my blanket that I peer through is the shape of an onion while I listen to her type. Pitter pat with a fat cat. Stomach as empty as a volleyball, I was beckoning her in need of driving her crazy with Huh?-inducing escapades and made up languages. It's the effect on you that prolonged exposure from me gives. I eat three meals a day, unfortunately, the ingredients of two are primarily my own words. He just dun killed himself an opportunity, that one did.