from: well... the only optical "hallucinations"
are the dreams i encounter,
through a "deaf" period of "hearing" /
but certainly not thinking this word up:
kij            (a wooden staff)...
  to... drinking a glass of bourbon,
becoming familiar with a taste of hazelnuts...
but more over...
                       what was that other taste...
no... strawberries once arose from
nicotine...
          ****... what was that taste...
           i need to remember it...
not chocolate, no...
    that wasn't it...
                        it wasn't even raw
vaginal petals of a *******
             searched by a covering of
skin cream...
                         there was something more...
bourbon can bellow at a tendency to
hover above the smoked salmon
taste of whiskey...
           the brothel sweetness simply,
overpowers...
                   taste hallucinations come so rarely...
the smoky scent of burning pine woods
in a land whereby pine trees are rare,
and birch trees are even rarer...
from a land where oak trees are deemed
sacred, like cows in India...
i know of one oak tree, that is deemed
sacred... on a mount,
where the Jewish cemetery sleeps its
staccato standstill...
  and the ancient oak, stand, protected...
the scent of burning auburn,
come late November and early December...
Poland...
   burning auburn, the reiterated color
of Baltic amber morphed into a perfume...
bourbon...
not hazelnut, but almost quiet akin...
there's this other flavor...
             only winter allows itself
the allowance of twice the value of
a stature of season...
in winter: the perfumes...
smokiness...
                     autumn the sickly
sweet season of decay...
   and spring... whereby color is by no
means a compensation of the perfumes...
     only summer...
  this... inferior Arabic child...
where the earth is scorched...
   and nothing smells of anything,
even if it could be something...
winter... hazy, smoky hazelnut cinnamon
ooze of pine, and in the distance...
oak...
              wizened man,
among the birches...
           took a hand, and placed
it onto ***** of his hand's
alone gesture to compensate
the magnetism: to make feel
of the harangue of earth:
lift my mind, to a spirit...
unto a tabernacle that encompasses
the final "banality" of a... heart!
    and give the winds my voice,
my thought the stones,
my dreams the stars,
      my memory the seas and
the deserts...
      my imagination the shadows
of all things bestowed before
the sun...
             decipher me...
      all in all dissected,
no more worse off...
   than a mere I...
            dissected as something
among the populace
worthy of a crucifiable contempt.