Don't smoke the medicine, son.
It hits you too quickly, rather than
wafting in slowly from within you, in incremental ripples
beginning from my liver all the way to the tips of my hairs and the bottom of my toes.
This is strong stuff.
All this medicine.
Self-help books, manuals of this and that, bric-a-brac
Golliwogs displayed proudly in rural Australian fairs
Oriental still Eastern still Asian til
"Where are you from"
a familiar ringtone, leading to
"let me eat you out from your most private places"
"how often must this occur?"
a dream of something better, a live once lived, could have lived, mostly already lived,
also many state experiences of being fully lived, yet always:
of something better
the will to growth, development
sprouting from seedling under sun into
marigold or mushroom
sometimes, words will continue to haunt my every conscious moment, carving out,
as they do,
myriad differentiations out of indivisible eternity.
"Don't smoke this herb..."
a religion founded on a special Sun
a religion founded on a special Son
a religion founded on a wand, magic, sex, rage
One day, I will be understood
as the Narcissist that I truly am
that sincerely, no one can ever fully understand me
not even me
and therefore, I am made eternally unknowable
except through all my arrogant traces
not exactly Narcissist,
also muse, someone else's Other
who becomes part of the self that I have become obsessed by
all others, indeed, filling in my sense of who "I" am, indubitably and even necessarily,
and I am left as no longer the small sense of my forgettable selfhood that is this lonely lifetime
but in the rewarding larger sum of all life together, weaved into
how I step my next steps.
a lofty goal?
a foolish dream?
an ever unfolding reality?
Nonsense. No one needs to know the new apartment.
I can speak truthfully and will be understood by even stony things.