I’m standing over a boiling pot of oatmeal, watching the formation of air bubbles that look like open mouths gasping for proof of life.
I wonder about life and where my soul was hanging out before the invite arrived.
I stand over that boiling pot of oatmeal and flash through the years that accumulate to this moment of stirring and flushing with water.
The calmness of heat against skin in the glow of an enclosed facility with an entry way that leads back out to the existence that has already been pre-ordained.
How did standing over a boiling of oatmeal make the cut?
At that specific minute of watching thickening of flaky oats with water, I could’ve been preparing to roller blade down the sandy runway of Venice Beach.
Or taking a peek over a hotel balcony in Venice, watching the decaying canals get the service of desperate irrigation.
Or taking a breezy am walk in the pleasurable chaos on Canal Street as merchants dazzle passers by with fake merchandise, bedazzled with stones that will drop off until all that’s left is the stark shell; where it all began.
The bottom of the pot is sticky with half cooked solids that aren’t out of luck if I decide to dig deeper with the giant spoon that’s built for labor.
