It is October 1975.
We’re in college in the White Mountains
Of New Hampshire. I score 2 hits of
Chocolate mescaline. Fiery dusk pours
Over combustible, ancient trees.
We enter a path into woods
With a flashlight & a book by e.e.
cummings.
Stars are melting all over the
Place. We sit on a stump &
Watch them streaking like thin,
Aluminum brushstrokes.
We chimp-laugh, then jungle fear opens
Our minds. Reading cummings
Altered by mescaline is too extreme,
Too frightening. The light is the sound
Of crunching twigs as I trot.
You run behind, a spooked deer.
We return to our pulsing room. I’m flushed,
You’re flushed. You ask a question,
Connecting bells & rattling bones onto
The end of each word. My silence is
E minor forever. Its color is pine flames.
We chew & swallow cans of shattered
Glass beer &
Smoke a good joint to come down,
To save us. We embrace on the
Mattress on the floor like 2 cellular globs
Kissing into 1 bulbous glob while
The raining stars burn
The horizon trees & blister the green bile of night
Surrounding our innocent, twin hearts.

 

 

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