It begins at a dispensary—The Tree House—
a twisting oak branch across its main room,
tripped-out canisters of caramel candies,
dropper bottles printed with the hand-like leaf.
Yes, I think, I like this place,
the smell of sweaty incense,
paintings of naked women
absorbed into dust and light.
Even now—chin sagged, pipe cleaner arms,
my body, an overcoat on a stick—that smell,
reminds me of an another time,
when I saw joists and Glulams in the sky—
my mind, a melting tip.
O, those days of blotter and window pane.
Bare-foot nyads, just begun,
fresh as tomatoes, light-struck—
the world whispering—
Everything will change.
But that night, no longer young,
after I chewed a double dose,
patterns deciphered the dark,
made sense—as I lost my senses—
of the idea of being alive.
I stepped outside, the moon ripped apart,
slivered my guts,
steamed from my mouth and eyes.
Why did we re-invent God?
Wasn’t this enough?
It wasn’t, you fool. Enjoy.
