not last stumble
Wow, man, wow.
Far out, mind blown.
Ant in cup of palm,
at my mercy, so vulnerable.
feel itty bitty tickling footsteps,
gaze deeply, take all in.
morning light in campus forest,
fifty years ago.
wow, man.
unreal.
dropped tab on previous night
naked, with unmentionable skin cylinder,
never tatooed or written on,
bearing one word in capitals:
LOVE
rises to skin
like prophecy to window
of Magic Eightball (R);
“NOT LIKELY” but real.
LOVE in my blood
making itself known.
blown away enough ego survives
somehow
to keep a journal.
“NOTE TO SELF:
MORE ACID. NO.
NO MORE ACID.
WILL I SMOKE MY PIPE
OR WILL MY PIPE SMOKE ME???????”
child’s drawing of horned devil.
little fear, much more wonder,
the road so beautiful could be a nightmare
if taken again, my “normal” so close to crazy…
don’t need pill to make permanent.
long long long night’s journey into day.
words scattered on words nonsensically
making sense when
“sanity” asserts itself.
ACID. NO. NO MORE ACID.”
toward end of journey.
miniscule ant on palm
teacher in its tininess.
so much warmth, tenderness
wrapping little traveller
in love.
becomes so very clear,
crosslegged in woods,
i am sitting on someone’s palm.
~ wry welwood
sixteenth of june
twenty twenty-one
Thanks to Jessica Lee McMillan of Scrittura.