by jerrontables says it is an adjective; the definition numbered to three. It can mean without symmetry, shape, formal arrangement; not characterized by any fixed principle, method, continuity, rate; not conforming to established rules, customs, etiquette, morality…etc.

It sounds interesting.

We, however, understand the connotations, how the word breathes inside of its definition.

Bowels, heartbeat, speech patterns, breathing.

Skin cells.

Sam Drove. Janie looked out the passenger side window after her surgery. She had been biopsied and Melanoma was spoken to her by a nurse, a doctor’s something, over the phone. They were confident that it hadn’t spread. Devastation. Relief. Burning hot, nurturing warm–but it had touched her like ice. There were two spots and a third was suspect. The surgeries were to be done one at a time over the period of a month.

Somewhere, invisible, hidden inside of vibrations, there is a room with a chair here and a chair there and everything  painted a single changing color—blue, black, caked like there are no walls, like it expands in claustrophobia, ever inward. Windowless. Carpetless.

In the chairs there are two people and one is Janie and one is Sam. There are no expressions or movement, though the chairs are mobile of their own accord–slowly to soothe. Of a sudden, Jamie moves backward in the chair and lays her chin on her arms over the top rung of the back. And Sam’s head goes down. And they sit. Moving in patterns too complex for perception. The entire expanse theirs for the taking. This room.

The highway relented, headlights groping. Sam would glance over at her and try to show his concern—fathom, translate, express. Impossible. He would try to push his element out and absorb the feeling of hers, look like she looked, feel like she felt, understand the mindset behind the squeeze of her sinews and vocal tones. She leaned her head against the seat and gazed out at the passing foliage, brief and indistinguishable, outlines of things behind them.

Irregular is hurting. Sam longed to unsheathe it, to strip the word of it’s housing–clashing of great metal, twisting bolts and shredding joints—destroying connotation. She was irregular from the beginning and there was never any hint of conformation. She did not twirl with the norm. She was radiant, fitting nowhere amongst the text, leaping off the page in full color, eyes ablaze, full like a beautiful storm that crashes you aside, feeds you with power from its core. Their love was shapeless in the way that water would spill the earth if would nothing restrain it, turn to mist and rise should something dismiss it. Their future had somewhere to be and their path was against the wake of everything.

In the room, Sam lifts up from his chair and beats the hell out of his chest.

And they drove—Janie still staring, knowing exactly the weight, and Sam guiding them off, striving, praying to understand


and not