The quick-porridge Sink

The hours wrap my legs in tendril vines licking like bolo tongues

Rising out of quicksand to ensnare my ankles in tasty salivating ecstasy

That I may release the drive of labor for the reverie of openness

To peer into the contemplation of just how alone I still am

The caked-mud upon my clavicles explains it all

Lungs expand in a restricted pattern as the particles cling despite

My extraction to appear at a table or bed or pillow to chat with keys

Ringed to keys for unknown doors with eyeballs wondering which to keep me busy

With this time I perceive to have

Thinking the sudden movements just make one sink more quickly

Better be still and revel in the oxygen flowing, bronchioles inflating

For now, the blood is swelling into a sharecropper’s dustbowl-delight

To know a portion of this is native to one’s rewards for labor so-justly

As if in all the passage ways of the universe what is pulsating as a burgeoning

Loveliness could not exist without the volition of a wind-sack choosing  

Even if the mathematics of election appeared moot behind the façade

Was purposefulness right there taunting to be priority over the grains and sludge?

Occupying the pit like a beige-bin of porridge, of not-quite oatmeal,

And not-quite a verdant octopus of chlorophyll gridlocked in square-cell walls,

But of the stardust of energy exploded into granules gripping the extremities

Of limbs like a liner around epidermis of energy that was solid and will be again

But for now is the flow of the would-be nothing keeping the breathers breathing

And the movers moving and the sinkers sinking

The what-was never ceased being and therefore is as relevant to the equation

Of occupying a conscious now for this week-work-day task evaluation

As it is in the expanse of disconnect of asset-acquisition and volition to do as one pleases

In these illusion-spaces of retirement typing, imbibing the ale, gorging on the buffet of gluttony

For possessions of task to pile upon shoulders to mask objectives as mandates for survival

So the existential can be kept at a fenced-distance and traded for marshmallow-musts

I am facing you Saturday-Sunday with multiple tickets to a New Orleans Jazz Festival

And nobody in the God-damn universe wants to see the Piano-man, not even me

Rather drown for the hypocrisy of John Lennon and imagine the paper cup slit

Spilling out the pools of sorrow and waves and joy bitch-slap Jai Guru Deva Om  

I am as lost as ever, a vagabond of thoughts for why Louis Armstrong misses home

Thinking I know why, but not sure of the shingle or the hue of paint and all under it a face

Uncertain if the geometry exists scuttling under the porridge to rise out or strangle with me

That if all of this were to be put to order the calm in the hurricane will single out a shadow

Of lovers by an oak tree straddling the girth of a descending branch

Bough tangent to the Earth to rise again after the centuries of reaching for the sky

As if the limb were its own undulating wave of wood, alive, drinking of this wetland city

Escaping the highway call for an animated wonderland of Johnny Cash gone to Jackson

Breathing, just breathing, knowing that this sun is not the one moving,

But then again it is all relative;

I think I might empower my volition to go festing alone today;

and see how that turns out with an extra ticket in my pocket

Adventure Time ho!