Bubble-Itch Eternal
by Odin Roark

So goes one’s first breath to death.

Like a wheel of endless births,
our personal bubble rolls and undulates
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 struggling,
but not crushed
under time’s animation.

Such are the varying tread marks
of man’s wide circumferential direction,
a circular terrain of fractured reconstituted flecks,
once molten of everything’s anything,
now but modernity’s survival-dust.

At times…

One’s bubble idles its roll and tilt
atop the tightrope passage of brain
indubitably connected to the heart muscle,
patiently pumping the thrill and troubles
that define this organ’s attachment,
this non-stop muscle that celebrates and grieves too,
even as it heals its slashes and teasing threat of death,
where sleep and pleasure
remain the swell of interlocked spasms and waves,
floating,
rolling,
plodding,
confused in becoming
part of history’s repetitive mantra.

For some…

Along the way,
mind and heart
hesitantly coalesce,
gasp,
hold,
await the next iteration,
knowing one’s vacuum,
this morphed and re-morphed repetition
is but eternity’s bubble-itch
looking to be scratched
another time…

and another.