How well-equipped our astronauts are,
Such rigorous standards set for them by their governments.
It strikes me there are certain things a psychonaut should be,
Some level of training to make us proficient in these practices.

How to build a program or curriculum,
And how do we assess one's competency
in configuring mind? We can qualify it but
without a quantifiable unit of measurement;
We can only teach through experience.
We must borrow from other disciplines,
Adopting as many methods of description
as are useful. Ultimately our notation will fail
the exploration of inner-space, I think no metric
can adequately represent how we navigate a soul
The territory we meander through is so different
yet we may share an inkling
between people.

There is this feeling
that some experiences
are ineffable. No, I think
it's that they affect our means
of expression. States of mind that
break through self-concept, dissolve
our components, ego, id or otherwise.

We must reconcile postmodern relativism
with the richness of our own subjectivity.

I toss and turn, lost,
Holding to darkness
as a comfort. Shut my eyes
as if sleep has me, but I don't rest.

These mornings I am sober but
out of my mind, for

I feel an old craving

to change what I am.
Stumble through,
Hesitate upon

Sometimes I forget how important it is
to put on some good music
and write. It's like

my guide star's been torn out of the sky,
The path I've been following
all my life, it's dark

and I'm nowhere, but
at least I found a new band I like,
Daughter; my experiences have only made me

wise. Though my life's quiet now there'll be a time
when I'm dead but my light still shines.
I hope one day it'll be my gift

to you, these words
which I never intended another
human would find. Even though I know
your curiosity will draw you to knowledge like

I long for your saccades

Friends go trippin' through the night
on all sorts: acid, 4-AcO, Mescaline.
We smoke cannabis blended with
oregano, and we freebase DPT.
I wake up on indigo Sunday
and sit across from them
before walking home.

How long can I stay before I'll never leave.
Graveyard of ambition, town of the lotus eaters,
City of the tribes. A tattoo of its name on my left rib
to the side of my heart. I was alive, once.
Now I'm a human In A Lonely Place,
New Order sharp, old chaos faint.

Broke my hand cycling. I fled, away
from something; chasing my psyche.
Felt nothing. Earth-grazer.
Rush of adrenaline. I fall, anger
turned inward does harm unto me;
I see myself spiraling.

They gave me a pair of local anesthetics
for the surgery, not psychoactive (although
the level of physical detachment was curious).
The nerve-block employed lidocaine, bupivacaine,
And the latter was mixed with epinephrine
to increase its duration of action:
This resulted in shivering and anxiety.