I’m trying to be the Beast.

( Best, I mean, best. Damn residual spanish accent lingering from my years spent in central american jungles eluding beasts—at which I was the best.)

But Beauty is so elusive.

( Like one of those dandelion seed-a-ma-things that takes to the air and you don’t even realize that as you run to catch it to satiate your childhood need to catch things that you’re breathing so hard and it’s actually all your commotion and your huff-a-puff breath that’s setting it adrift.)

I wonder if she knows what she’s missing.

( You see, there were wildflowers everywhere. There were flowers wild where you fell. And the raving petals between us, pressed, made an aromatic threesome.)

I wonder too much for a Beast.

( Ever skyward as a child, looking, peering. No one else looked cause they knew you had the sky covered. You were earth’s sentry, a natural. If any UFO’s were to be sighted, you’d be the one to come through. What they didn’t know was that the aliens came to you in dreams. Some lucid and still remarkably wakeful.)

I wander too much for a Beast.

( Where words have never gone before, to go. Where worlds are yet to begin, let in. Enjoin chaos, permit no whorl from whirl discernment until…the first rise of sun. The first remembered one. The one that shafted you.)

I wonder why I wander.