Stopped this morning at the 7-11 on Wisconsin in Bethesda like I do every morning on the way to work for coffee, LOOK! a fine metaphor abounds, if I wanted a large (or an extra large or a medium or a small) I had to choose, I was not offered a third choice. Fuck that. I've kept the all-white cup I got at the bakery on Arlington Road I bought after, I'm going to take a sharpee and write on it, NEITHER MOTHERFUCKER, Motherfucker! and stop tomorrow morning at the 7-11 and snap a photo of the above two next to my cup. Or not. More fine metaphors.
That's the very top of Sugarloaf, shot taken yesterday - the most beautiful day of weather in my world in months, mid-seventies, no humidity - hiked with Earthgirl between bouts of work suck for both of us and unbelievably suckful dying mother suck for Earthgirl - send Kind thoughts to Earthgirl. We are rededicated: our fat asses are gonna get fit again, we are going to mountains any and all weekends we're not going to see Planet (or we will once the must-not-speak-evil-of-the-dying dies, though I will give you cash money if my brother-in-law disappears without a trace and I can't be tied back to it). Back to the work suck: Links tomorrow, probably, two songs and a poem today.
CHANT OF THE HALLUCINOGENIC PLANTS
Amy Gerstler
God made nothing in vain. All herbs have purpose.
Pollinated by bats (which tickles!) we ripen the mind.
Sip our bitter milk. Smoke these weeds and shepherd
the immense. This blossom, when swallowed.
makes cowards eloquent. Haze of consolation
robs grief of her sting. Everything drips and merges.
Phosphorescent radiations overtake you. The banal
becomes ecstatic. Everlastingness pours forth.
Wrapped in a flame-colored cloud, swaddled
in mirth and trembly tenderness toward earth,
one prefers not to stir from this cave. God
is a substance, a drug. These erotic shocks,
this blizzard of images, this ambiguous wink
is his. Man is only a weed in these regions.
