23 March 2012

Return Ticket


I’d like a return ticket

To where?

To here of course

Where is here?

I’d pay good money to find out

You came to the wrong place

Where is the right place?

Not here

But that’s where I’m going

You’re out of luck then

I got so stoned on bug juice I up and flew away, but my wings were polyester, cotton mix that did not fare well in rain – So I sheltered in the arms of comely farm girls until the sun came out – when I flitted off to get my nectar fix. I tasted all the flowers – drank my fill from their luscious lips. Until someone punched my ticket and cut short my trip.

That seems like a lifetime ago – longer in dog years, but dogs have no sense of time; which is why they don’t wear watches. I don’t wear a watch either – life seems short enough without measuring it out. That’s the problem with this particular journey – it has a finite length and you can’t buy a return ticket.

You local apothecary carries lotions and tinctures to soothe the passage of your days and obliterate your nights in dime bags and quarter ounces. Your friendly neighbourhood shaman will salve your aches and pains with the universal panacea of godhead and eternal life. Playing with your joystick will eat up the hours between dusk and dawn. We all eat the lotus in some shape or form. However you spend those days and nights there are no refunds; you cannot get them back again.

1 comment:

  1. Uncompromising masterpiece, so powerful, so demanding, transforming in a way only direct experience can, and this literature is with such effect