I wrote these two poems in the summer of 2001.
"Things That Shoot Up"
heroine addicts, weeds; skyrockets, fireworks, bombs
bursting in air, oh-oh say can
all the things shooting up? billions of lasers climbing, shot from the
billions of fingers in the great wide open nothingness?
like the rain dreams of upside-down androids; a
computer-generated chaos that just can't stop organizing
no floating feathers, or gentle bobbing ships on waves that
elbow each other in jest in the ribs. just
BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! ribboning cyclones, a barber
snipping himself to the piling end, the cocaine sniff that
lasts a whole gracious slicing lifetime, the weed-infested
field plucked and plucked by children with A.D.D. forever,
BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! but the clincher is BWAAAAAAAA!
Um. What just happened? One more poem now. Or whatever these things are.
"What the Bar Looks Like After Ten Drinks"
advancing and retreating
bobbing and swiveling amongst
globes of gaseous gold and
planes of cloudy black.
in eerily recurrent complex
patterns: rectangles re-
mushrooming in unharvested rows
a silent rainfall of heartbeats
a rolling murmur in the shape of a giant cube
Okay, I lied. One more. From that same era.
Today, by its very length,
weighs twice as much as yesterday.
(another debt to pay)
metes away the seconds slipping slowly,
(finally) my sleep away;
the morning, scrrraping across my back,
and I am stuck between the doubled day
and its Siamese twin
Apparently, I was on some kind of mysticism/perception/experience kick back then.