The sound

   Vaporizing harmine
  & harmaline all
blue and green

  We’d speed up
 pitch tempo and time
every night

   The powdery taste
  of their cherryish
boiling points

      The agents
     isolated
    from esphand
   to ward
  the evil
 eye

Of our time

   Who knocks
  on the door
 that hasn’t burned
the acrid seed

  I could
 feel myself
unlatching

   There at the crux
  of my departure
 was the potato-gun-like
sound

  This was all
standard procedure

   The cylindrical THWONK
  of something launching—
 something exploding—
beyond loud—

  Letting go
 into a crescendo
of lifetimes

  Awakening
 to a roulette
of new beginnings

Again and again


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8 thoughts on “The sound

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