Eternity’s Bubble-Itch

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
This sublime emptiness-transmorphing
Is but eternity’s bubble-itch
Looking to be scratched
One more time