Rhythms

Rising of sun I took breath– The same breath I took to begin each day. I have no mind to fix breakfast right now; I'm not ascetic, but it occurs that The same thing has happened for quite awhile. And now the rhythm becomes conscious again. I clench in my fist sheets again. In hollow stupor, I release a breath. I float to the floor and stumble awhile. In mirror, I tout crass prospects today, “You are a genius all of the time”– that-- Is my excuse to be complacent, now. Through sleeves I shove my arms now: The same accompanying red sleeves again, and I pour out cereal that I indifferently imbibe like a breath Of fresh air from the pool that engulfs day. Because the rhythm is smothered, I smile awhile. Outside, I muse over air awhile. It markets false senses of relish now, And subversive notions seize the whole day, Which are left in the wake of the air again. The efficacious hum of the car's breath Evokes my happiness, and I settle with that. What is the answer to that? I pushed my head down to cool school desk awhile. I breathed, and it seemed simple that that breath Was the single product of anger, now. This would not have bothered me if not again This rhythm had merged the week into one day. I ran away from me that day. I, of course, am presumptuous for that, But benevolent coffee comforts helped again To quench the burning, beating rhythm for awhile. At first it waned-- but wait!-- it starts fast now. I now expel futility as breath. I know it will steal my last breath and prevent my being a saint– that Beating bane I was learning to escape from that day awhile– letting me rest now in solitude again.