The luxurious and the lavish resplendence
of languishing and lingering in languor can
at times hang like the proverbial albatross
around your life, around your neck as it
holds you down as an unlucky anchor.
Yet maybe it’s even more like a pendulum.
Its jackhammer sway batters an ever-present
reminder that time goosesteps on in black boots
and combat grays into our supple sponges of brainy batter.
Material that makes us a moveable feast for zombies,
“was that what Hemmingway was writing about?”
You might ask yourself such quandaries in the blissful
yet disappointing half sleep you find yourself in. Like
trying to touch the bottom of a pool, you’d push against
gravity and impending pressure to return to the deep.
That must make swimming and dreaming both
into forms of simple survival. The need for air
and the need for imaginative blitzkriegs of escapism
keep us from drowning.
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