After drinking some strong Californian white
& smoking some good home-grown
almost anything seems possible, like
designing a temple for aged butterflys or
eating poverty out of existence & in times
of spontaneous abstractions, release the
fucking safety-catch on life & free-fall,
free-fall into the dust of different worlds
colluding with a maze of illuminated karma,
or maybe paint Li Po's drunken moon
still rippling amongst the thoughts of clouds,
but mostly, after drinking some strong Californian white
& smoking some good home-grown, i gradually pass-out,
leaving behind poems that will appear fog-like in
tomorow's whispers of obscurity.
