Fast Lane Gridlock
By Odin Roark

Might the tortoise one day soon pass the hare?

Whether speeding to the off-ramp of frenetic social media,
lounging through the sound bite informational middle lane,
coining today’s trendy-word weaving in and out,
pausing as a law abiding tweeter on the shoulder,
or the voracious competitor
vying for a peddle-to-the-metal on-ramp inclusion,
the masses thrusting mind and body forward into the....

Mess.

So goes the compulsion
to be ahead,
to be the one,
to be the leader.

Of what?

A running-in-place parking lot of your own making?

Recall when…

So simple the decisions,
adolescent verve breaching the parental bond,
teenville’s reckless nirvana,
young adult risks guaranteeing success,
or true adulthood as a concession?

Such anticipation delivered blurred lines,
not unlike today’s fast lane.

Back then…

How willingly one’s canvases stretched,
inviting a wash of honest foundation,
beckoning a clear eyed brush-stroke of truth
extending one’s passionate pigments rich,
arcing dripping tendrils of mind's Pollock-like synapses
to splash across learning's crosshatched safety net,
at last revealing not colors by numbers,
opting instead for a rogue's palette,
a liquefied Philip Glass expedition
traversing creation's crescendos,
once unconquerable high-note-peaks,
endless deserts of quiet,
fathomless oceans of evolution
evaporating into the infinity of nothing,
and everything.

Today…

To levitate the darkness,
accept those of blind impetus,
invites time's universe of unanswerable questions
where raised textures of wisdom’s essence
longevity’s canvas of sensorial pleasure,
promises existence immeasurable,
where dust’s vibration survives,
even after mortality’s demise.

With expectancy offering so many on ramps…

Might the task really be
to enjoy the comfort of fulfillment,
where to create thought slowly,
carefully nurture one's journey
seeing, hearing, feeling the surroundings,
is to stave off acquiescence into
man’s fast lane stalemate…

Such is an intriguing place to be.

Just ask the tortoise of your mind
who long ago determined
time might go fast,
our hare not withstanding,
but passage wasn’t designed for gridlock.