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From the AB Book: The Devil’s Drug

1/31/19: “The Devil’s Drug” for Imbolc 2019

1/31/19: “The Devil’s Drug” for Imbolc 2019

Hello my old barricade, the last chance to be surrounded by a gentle error. Communication continually undermined by determination. Glut of aloneness pained with the patchy blue corn chip stale. Erroneous, but the clicking/clucking snap of doom.

I reach into the crevasse of a Cascadian’s slipshod note, a sequence of arrested brotherhood. I-stance to gain as a world of putrid limits denotes an upsetting intake of chloroformed breath, the upstand outlast rallying us from lack of it.

As Annette would say: a need for the neurotransmitter, a yearn to consider the balance of the Gaba’s chatter. Previously a whisper, sunlight recently opening melancholy like pores, the civilized cradle enticed, interstitially en-tilde’d; entitled to memories of when a demonic gaze left off, before breath, before seat, before chalice, and the bloated form of wherewithal, or however, let us be damned, demented, and dammed.

And let’s be friends: the triptych toward healing is a movement forward. And pinkness is still a trill of whiteness and relaxants are still giant, pocked walls of bird corpses and the fainting monikers anthropomorphized (anthropo-morphosed) across wretched, wretch’s documents.

And while there is fragrance in my holistic, unbuttoned hole of 2019 American nightmare metropolis, filling up is the active ingredient. To espouse holy beyond the sneers and the seers through a blast of fire slit and carbonized liberties, dreams of the planetary slash, the flush of a comet, which is beyond its Satanic ice, its membrane of reality a stinking of the cloud of memory too machinic when spun out on time, when thoroughly manic, entered int o a state of bliss, and a statement of dreaming, dreaming of and deciding upon lies.

2019 Winter in Seattle ends with a peripheral polar vortex crushing reality like wind upon the mounds of ants and my own mind, that heart-brain-neural network-system pulse-reclaimed—is the latchkey and the idea of leap or loops as it in in a crucial spirit ought to be, over-mind slash mind slash overmined—

E. Richard Atleo in 2005 spoke about secrets and power. In a world of social timelines, the ephemeral sacred may be our beating hearts. The ritual of sacrifice as swollen clocks. The bitten breasts melted down into a core. The central, electric pain of the encountered nerve. Enchanters wail whole like Coyote (trickish), coyotes (along the margins), the errors fictionalized like conquest, borders, permanence, claims reclaims, and the swerve of this very BARK.

A downwind howl picks at the mine and its prize—pure fiction as well, the commodity the corrosion the sense of value. The voice of belonging. The shared huddle. Survival as a form of trust. To live is to love and trust and belong to, to be possessed by/for/within. This whispered universe of wakeful moments. Lamantia spoke of this with his “Ruins”:

“Falling from tear drops of time,

the well of hidden dreams

seems like broken ice over the sun.”

I split open his form like a dried, dying coconut (memories of Hawaii, those folks I know there):

Emerging from flailed limbs of the continuum,

the dance of simulated truths

opens as pixelated birds flutter alongside the ferry.

A sonic resonance at age 32 is the thrust to love, breathe, and love again, attraction to heart is as full as heat, protection as protector, sense of sloshing and splashing of the identity, to which we owe our efforts, sense of self, egos and all, the sticks that let us leap off the cliffs, our profiles driving us to the madness of belonging, this Spring as intended as all is intended, lunar and glowing before the rot and the ruins, and Rainier Beach, a site to carry the weight of it all, so say us anyway, so practice these satisfactions we do, these relational patterns of distributed, magnetized blood, hearts here while foregoing and in a trance, a great American joy leaps forward, destroying stalemate’s board and the unshorn beard.

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