Nov 2020
I walk with grace
Not gracefully
But alive
And therefore with more grace
Than may be deserved
My life
An affront to itself
A poetic type of irony
Which deconstructs the whole
To find each piece
Microcosmic
Our lives
Kaleidoscopic melding of melting crown moulding mounding
On the floor
Where I lay flat
On my stomach
Waiting for it to form
Into something more exciting
Or at least less
Digestible
A child’s pursuit
Of confounding
To turn around
And confound
To be got
To be able to get
What I’m trying to say is one time I ingested psilocybin mushrooms in the forest and climbed to the top of a tree fort. My friend told me to draw what I saw and handed me a pen. I grabbed the pen and it slipped from my hand to the ground. And I knew. I knew in that moment there was nothing to say. I saw two shadowed figures standing on the ground and one of them pointed up to us.
The wheel is turning
Ever and onward
Rushing at speeds
Incomprehensible
To the acute observer
Obtuse the angles
Of the eye which catches
The periphery
And sees moving
Or shifting
The pavement is veiled in zig-zagging patterns superimposed and waiting to split open revealing the universe
And I lay
Tired and wide-eyed
A stone stabbing the back of my head
Staring at the sky
Wondering how infinite
Infinity
A vain pursuit
To place words
Where there are already
Stars and space
What I’m trying to say is, months later I was in the same forest with the same friend who had given me the pen which taught me to speak. We were doing ******* off of the case of a digital scale by a fire pit lined with fallen trees. It was fall and it was windy and we all had to gather around to lay out lines so it wouldn’t blow away. My friend points to the tree fort and asks if I remember the time we sat there tripping. I remember the shadowed figures and I remember there is nothing to say.
Silence a slippery thing
Not like darkness
Gauged in tone
Simply there
Or not
Seemingly never not
Always a ringing
Almost chirping
If you listen close
To the walls
The stories of dead trees whose lives spanned unspoken aeons and whose roots tasted plowed and plagued soil - felt the crisp rain before we turned it to acid.
I hear this rain
I stand out in it
Feel it on my skin
Listen closely to its story
A stalemate
To say things are known
In opposition to that
Which dictates knowing
What I’m trying to say is, I spent a lot of time going back to that place. There were abandoned storage containers we used to smoke **** and drink beer inside of. I would try to phase through the walls on dextromethorphan, always getting stuck about a foot behind where the wall is. You see it’s not the wall you have to worry about, it’s the underlying concept of a barrier that manifests itself in a wall that I could never seem to get past.
Until that time
Asleep in the next room
I walked to the bathroom
Whispering walls foreboding dark fortunes. Blue reflections of artificial light contorting face and shadows.
I saw it
It placed one finger on its lips
The other hand outstretched
Reaching in to darkness
What I’m trying to ask is,
What I need to know is,
“What were you reaching for?”
Not gracefully
But alive
And therefore with more grace
Than may be deserved
My life
An affront to itself
A poetic type of irony
Which deconstructs the whole
To find each piece
Microcosmic
Our lives
Kaleidoscopic melding of melting crown moulding mounding
On the floor
Where I lay flat
On my stomach
Waiting for it to form
Into something more exciting
Or at least less
Digestible
A child’s pursuit
Of confounding
To turn around
And confound
To be got
To be able to get
What I’m trying to say is one time I ingested psilocybin mushrooms in the forest and climbed to the top of a tree fort. My friend told me to draw what I saw and handed me a pen. I grabbed the pen and it slipped from my hand to the ground. And I knew. I knew in that moment there was nothing to say. I saw two shadowed figures standing on the ground and one of them pointed up to us.
The wheel is turning
Ever and onward
Rushing at speeds
Incomprehensible
To the acute observer
Obtuse the angles
Of the eye which catches
The periphery
And sees moving
Or shifting
The pavement is veiled in zig-zagging patterns superimposed and waiting to split open revealing the universe
And I lay
Tired and wide-eyed
A stone stabbing the back of my head
Staring at the sky
Wondering how infinite
Infinity
A vain pursuit
To place words
Where there are already
Stars and space
What I’m trying to say is, months later I was in the same forest with the same friend who had given me the pen which taught me to speak. We were doing ******* off of the case of a digital scale by a fire pit lined with fallen trees. It was fall and it was windy and we all had to gather around to lay out lines so it wouldn’t blow away. My friend points to the tree fort and asks if I remember the time we sat there tripping. I remember the shadowed figures and I remember there is nothing to say.
Silence a slippery thing
Not like darkness
Gauged in tone
Simply there
Or not
Seemingly never not
Always a ringing
Almost chirping
If you listen close
To the walls
The stories of dead trees whose lives spanned unspoken aeons and whose roots tasted plowed and plagued soil - felt the crisp rain before we turned it to acid.
I hear this rain
I stand out in it
Feel it on my skin
Listen closely to its story
A stalemate
To say things are known
In opposition to that
Which dictates knowing
What I’m trying to say is, I spent a lot of time going back to that place. There were abandoned storage containers we used to smoke **** and drink beer inside of. I would try to phase through the walls on dextromethorphan, always getting stuck about a foot behind where the wall is. You see it’s not the wall you have to worry about, it’s the underlying concept of a barrier that manifests itself in a wall that I could never seem to get past.
Until that time
Asleep in the next room
I walked to the bathroom
Whispering walls foreboding dark fortunes. Blue reflections of artificial light contorting face and shadows.
I saw it
It placed one finger on its lips
The other hand outstretched
Reaching in to darkness
What I’m trying to ask is,
What I need to know is,
“What were you reaching for?”
