I don't know if I'm high yet.
I find myself in the kitchen suddenly,
struggling to get the plastic wrap off a bag of popcorn.
Says microwave three minutes,
listening very carefully.
Some bags can finish in 1:30.
That means 2:00 is fine, and
I leave the room.
I think I'm high. I must be.
Let's check the pen.
I got what I've got by using the dabber
to scrape the loose excess from the walls
and rims of the little silver bullet.
Nothing left on the parchment for a while.
A gram doesn't go fast -- it lasts and it lasts
because with the smoke in my lungs
I dance the dance of my ancestors, moving
without speaking and thinking without thought,
gliding between space and time with the ghosts that I've brought,
summoned from ether and cast from the gods,
for me but by me, I am what I've lost.