14 Sep 2005

Hunter's Last Trip

he drowned in the lake
and i didn't find out ‘til
drunk at a party, years later
he was high on dmt

like d. m. turner
called the tryptamine a “water spirit” and
drowned in the bathtub on k, entheogenic heroin
what did god look like, did he beckon, send a vision
of the insignificance of safety, a timeless truth?

hunter, jesus christ, and should i be naming names?
is the grunginess of this epitaph just a personal projection?
you'd think a man who decides to live a psychedelic life
would have no interest in prettying up his death
and who am i to say it isn't pretty anyway
and what does he care, he's dead
whatever that means

i guess there's worse ways to go
but since we've all been briefed on how the brain floods with
naturally-produced dimethyltryptamine
from the pineal gland for the run-up to death (us head hobbyists)
there is a feeling of redundancy to hunter's last trip
really puts the "gratuitous" in
gratuitous grace

life is a grace we know we should know
then we go and get drugged
when our space lacks grace
a chemical, ace in the hole

"just say no" they told me in school
but it’s not that simple
abstinence is dissonant
and the body speaks in tongues
and the brain got in there, oblique alien organ
whispered so-called secrets to me:
"cleanse the doors, see the infinite"

but I see the splinter too
like a fractal retinal grain
did hunter see the splinter when he tripped on dmt?
what does he see when he drowns by the docks?

this placid passive empire plagued with psychedelic
deaths, maybe it deserves to be overrun, lebensraum
for the foreign hordes, trust-fund hippies
radial pattern of gentrification, quasi-heritage
so many ways to hate, so many people to despise
i don't want to despise anymore, it's not necessary
just emotion, a chemical, addiction
can't write mein kampf when i'm burnt out
though i'm not burnt out just cause i think i am
burnt out, they're just words, chemicals, addictions

first world, first class
small business paying the boat bills
not a bad life i would think
and drugs are as evil as life is
no more, no less

1 comment:

netinous said...

red flannel shirt floating on lake working-class flag sinking in darkening increments.