Man Overboard

I rise into the fog of morning. My nimbus mind smoked in dream. I hear the foghorn unseen of day tolling for tribute, the tax of a beating heart. First, coffee, to course the veins of sleep. Then a plan. Not for what it seems. Not to accomplish. Nor to attain or gain. Neither not the day to rise and bake. But a plan of this and that, of simple things like shower, diet, exercise. And too with nail-less hammer, to drive away the ghost of ego, that quicksand of immolation, of consumption. These simple things, this forward movement of mind seeking tether, seeking movement, to join the living and breathe the air of life into weary lungs, to know of creation, even if but to float, to be carried somewhere, anywhere but here, anywhere but this stagnation.