Death smells like lemongrass

they used to burn these woods all winter

now the summers do themselves

they had a system worked out
that would emphasize the abundance

the entire territory was the garden
alive and growing like the mind
stepped outside of itself
and began to dance

time’s pole shifted a while back—
yeah—we were in reverse now
didn’t you know—

it’s not a place
until you make it one

like a ring just to see
what your limitations are

how well can you put last years
lessons into practice

a game of hectares, furrowslices & spreadsheets

a temple of agronomical meditation with mantises

when you’re there it consumes you
because it is you because of you

the pregnant deer barrelrolling with a smile
over your first edition fence

a place not to play god but to laugh quietly
in his face—the silence blowing thru the pines

you go there not to forget but you end up doing so
honing in on the accuracy of inputs and outputs

compost teas and microbial inoculants are to soil what kombucha and kimchi are to humans

observation becomes communication
every day—every hour sings a different tune

the finches sneak roosts in the trees 
that weren’t there before you decided
to put them there with leaves tracking the sun

bred, birthed, tended, ammended, and cut down
after eight months of watchful eyes

peering down and counting from the blackbird in the sky

it’s the same song by an evolving band
never once played the same way again

you were either there for it or you weren’t…

lentils spiralcrawl the trellis next to hairy vetch, cowpeas, and carter flax

what started as an idea and came out of a wound
of the corrupt earth to colonize with mycorrhizae

under the moonlight and with the stars we move slow like kelp
into our dying selves taking pictures

of the natural beauty—the sustenence of our meddling—the deathsmiling work at dawn

bees land on the battered tools and machines
some of the butterflies know to evade the bamboo deerfence

brought down by something as simple
as a foot of snow and ice howling

on paper you play the less goes in
more comes out game while battling hazard after hazard

like caltrans spraying fusarium infected cyclamen
on the side of highways to eat weeds

now the amber jars of essential oils
of lemongrass ginger rosemary peppermint
and lavender are miscible on the counter

isaria fumosorosea in the fridge
will mummify them in threads of mycelium
from the inside out

would a buddhist let her buds rot
or would she feed the caterpillars
bioinsecticides for supper

would she breathe and eat the spores of decay
or kill the ones that would cause it responsibly

you can’t bullshit yourself in the garden
it’s right there in your face all the time

everything you’ve done to make it that way
you switch it up—you stick with what works

you learn from your mistakes

even when you leave it you can see it like it gets sucked up inside of you and you carry it around

like a bluejay does a pine needle

you want to know that what you’ve grown
is nutrient dense with proteins

mineral balanced and alive

free from heavy metals, pests and diseases

not like the sugarpacked shit they sell
as produce at most supermarkets
sprayed with cheap deathchems in tyvek

this world is bleak as fuck—doomed to a slow painful death

but it isn’t in the garden

or it doesn’t have to be at least
you spend so much time as one
you know what to expect

you do it right and it can provide you with almost everything you need

all the worries lugged around as a human
dissipate among the quinoa, crimson clover, and buckwheat
at the bottom of the hill

the seeds of medicine to be cherished
in their infinite variation in the fall

where the garden doesn’t end
because of the bad weather
it doesn’t crawl into it’s cave
of the mind and hibernate until spring

they hire seasonal workers come croptober
to hunt us down like bucks on the highways

the garden comes from the mind
and so it returns 

sometimes it shows up in small baggies
in urban areas where people dream of gardening someday

They

Leperhanded collection

deciding which ones to cull

listening to the same world
on repeat

my rain killed
all your moths
this year
won’t be
like the last

something tugs on your speaking
flickers dust behind the nucleus

a compass to inject the skin
with meaning

we meant what we said
on the surface

the same way you can never look inside
of an eye (no matter how hard you try)

it’s always black
not quite a hole

sometimes
it can be green

                         a portal opened up between them
             like it was a sunrise






For Teri

You don’t have to do anything 

but scream

and keep screaming

breathe in the stillness

and do it again tomorrow

or the next day

we hear you

even here in the pines where no one

hears nothing

maybe not quite like Guadalajara

I wonder, have you realized yet

what the pigs head whispered

in return to your lips?

Who was your godface that night the stars

milked themselves a silver coyote 

stood watching behind the saguaro 

out of the blood that stained your dress

the same color of the shirt of the man who 

tried to take us away somewhere 

I wonder if I’d have heard you

lounging your tongue in the air

for the ones still down there

You want to use your voice for your people

I think it’s all of us that need it

inside of them like it’s inside of you the way

it meets you at the crossroads burning water

in the middle of the night we put it on

like a mask that we can never take off

it sinks into the skin like the sweat off your legs

when you’re feeling nervous and human




Entitled

Were you there

when I woke with ankles chained to coral

could you hear it 

when I woke I was surrounded

how many of them were there

when I woke strapped down the serum inching

what was it that was murmured 

when I woke five filaments of hyphae

was it just a dream

when I woke a full lotus flame

were you absolutely certain

when I woke the ground getting closer


Orexin

It’s funny to think
about how hormones
are drugs produced
by your body
that control almost
everything that makes you you

and yet we know that isn’t true at all
—we are something else
entirely—how could we limit ourselves
to this dead iron flesh when we were
full spectrum fountains of light—

and yet that was all just an idea
—like the last full moon passing
before planting when the pull
on our waters are weakest in the dark

observable, testable—like
the last poem
in the works before the poetry
of being works its hands
of vines
into autumn’s lines

you call it
wakefulness
but you know
I’m not too sure
about that
anymore


The words

Erowid used to be this vault of intangible mystery


I don’t know how many reports I read
before I took things into my own hands

I was young, yeah
just 14

I was old—

Huichol kids were no strangers
to the small buttons in the sand

the babes of the Shipibo
drinking little cups of aya
before they were born—
breastfed and initiated—

old still—
compared to the coming of age
of the Bwiti—


I didn’t know what I was but

falsely prohibited—

I knew I had to know

Sitting in Tony’s dumpy backyard
on a busted ass couch
his loose mohawk a veil of fat

You have to keep the lighter on it
You have to hold it in for a long time
Hit it again
It’s not working, this shit is fucking bunk

We had no idea what we were in for
and I was the only one that did it right
I took these huge lungfulls
out of one of those old green acrylic bongs
until I thought I could see music notes
where their voices were
and everything went bright sky blue
I was floating
in front of a burning fireball star
we were the only things
in existence

there were two long black lines
thinning into a point on the horizon
of the blinding surface of the sun
smoldering—
connecting whatever I was
to whatever it was—
I could see white things
racing
up and down it
like a highway

they were symbols,
no—they were
words


The sonosub

It looked like your everyday rocket
without a cone
it was flattopped and hollow
a 5′ piece of sonotube
2″x4’s, screws, wood scraps, wood glue and foam
with a subwoofer on the bottom
exposed six inches off the ground
painted with blue and purple
acrylic mixed together
to make all the colors inbetween

It was basically just a bass cannon
that could vibrate your eyes
from 20′ away in the desert

All frequencies were cut above 60Hz—
used studio monitors for rest

If you got closer to it
you could see the bass
thubwomping
down into the ground and outward in the shape
of an hourglass and feel it
in every part of your bodymind

It was like you were talking
just sitting there as the air thickened
electricrified

Cut the waves
above 20Hz
and you’d still feel like you were
submerged in sound you couldn’t hear
using a signal generator at 18
cycles per second

It would turn the dust beneath it
into a map we could have used
but we didn’t

they were too busy eating
100mg harmine and dmt together
encapsulated down on the rug
in the parachute geodome at sunset

while I’d be eating acid
mescaline and mdma
all day everyday and still be able to dj

ambient soundscapes would gain momentum
as they’d be groaning at the palo santo lit—
the torchclick of the vapor genies—
the whole block indolereeking
to every familiarized passerby—

we were hidden—
but they were gone

We’d come from
all around the world
just to lay around and do this
together

The music would build up until around midnight
seamlessly—I’d play whatever I felt like
they would want to hear
if I was them
until they came back

Organic timbres woven with
the digital quantization—subtle mashups
never to be heard again

Others would come and go quietly
respectfully—everyone knowing
and not knowing at all—

we had found it

whatever it was