Sourdough

what is the labor of love,
but the foul wind turned palatable?
fermented and bubbly, funky and oozing
the smell of decay becomes umami, how multi-cultural
it streaks over
the surface of cognition,
of waking life

what is the labor of love,
but the flow of time
turned stagnant
colored red and rosy in the reflection
of binoclard being

what is the labor of love,
but limbo incarnate?
wherein the preachers and proselytizers
beckon and reach out,
declaring judgement day has come
tremoring in fear and righteousness

what is the labor of love,
but that present
the Bodhisattva philosophizes
that which frees in asymptotic rush
truly, truly it must be

truly, i must think more on the matter
but time,
time
time i do not have

for labor without love
is labor extracted
compacted and distilled,
hollowed metal turned Capital,
its glory filled with heretics
painted targets of sacrifice
and encrypted messaging

time
time
time to breathe
to bake bread
but slave master calls again
time
time to paint, and sing,
re-enact Eleusinian mysteries
time to make dust the president
of the student loans company