Bubble-Itch

Bubble-Itch By Odin Roark Like a wheel of endless births Our personal bubble rolls and undulates From first breath to death Through meditations of desire Shopping malls and jails Farms Caves Rotten downtowns Penthouse isolations Cemeteries and urns Especially unmarked graves Of dirt and ocean anonymity Whether sluiced by life’s briny water Colored toxic flows Or pure spring eruptions The mind reconstitutes Its textural translucence Separating and recombining Its minuscule droplets and grains of experience Into sub-atomic particles for infinity’s grace Seemingly But not crushed Under time’s animation Such are the varying treads Of wide circumferential roadwork A modern terrain of fractured tar flecks Once molten everything’s anything Now but survival’s dust Unscheduled One’s bubble idles its roll and tilt Atop the tightrope passage Brain to that legendary heart muscle Patiently pumping the thrill and troubles That defined this organ’s attachment This non-stop muscle that wants and grieves too Even as it heals its slashes and teasing death threats Where sleep and pleasure Remain the swell of beaded spasms and waves Floating Rolling plodding Reaching to become History’s repeating mantra Until Mind and heart Reluctantly giving up Gasp Hold Await the next iteration Knowing one’s vacuum This morphed and re-morphed Sublime emptiness-transmorphing Is but eternity’s bubble-itch Looking to be scratched One more time