Stumble or dance

And I changed shorts in the bedroom closet.
Dumb, pulling clingy fabric over grippy running shoes.
I stumbled and goofed.
Everything’s a trap.
You either curse it or enjoy it.

The romantic meeting turned to black widow molestation discomfort.
Overly ambitious women leading with their chins in a carnival of poorly delivered lines.
Six perfect words from a wondrously tall brunette: I’m nobody. I don’t do nuthin.
A book by a guru, promising a better night’s sleep in a world of idiotic script actors.
Tantra as a way of denying sex in order to enhance sex.
Even in nature, the trap binds a racoon to the pavement via a random spinning rubber wheel.
Lucky wheel. Unlucky racoon. Or the other way around.

Fear the trap and avoid it, and it just may come to trap you bigger and better another day.
Enjoy it, dance it and fall with it, and you’re the star of an absurd play.
Allow the whale to take you under Ahab, and you arise an Ishmael, telling the tale with a different set of clothing.
Stumble or dance, either way, it’s the same nothingness. The same stage. The same actor.