the MUSEUM: I will not edit this rant. i will never care more for a place getting shut down. i am outraged.

This does not support the god life

This is an abomination.

I will speak of this plain to let the world know,

At least, those who listen:

THIS IS HOW I GOT MY FIX:

THIS IS HOW I GOT MY HIGH:

The Vancouver Drug & War Museum.

The established underground: each day

At 3 pm where Hastings East meets

Hastings swank West at Cambie,

At the park statue, gather there, wait there,

A representative of the museum will greet

And take you on a tour.

Vancouver’s Drug & War history.

Different locations; very informative:

Gassy Jack was Vancouver’s first drug dealer,

Now, historic Gastown is named after him,

The heap of whiskey at his bronze feet,

Is the actual barrel he sailed here with.

The Lotus Hotel was Vancouver’s first earthquake

Resistant building, but more importantly,

Cheech & Chong met there.

There is a time capsule buried in the Cambie park

To be opened in 2042, filled with goods hopefully

Legalized by the release date.

The purple glass tiles in downtown and Gastown

Were there for very specific reasons:

To show people where the underground tunnels were,

That led users from opium den to opium den,

So that the general public would not have to see them enter,

Not to mention that they were the result of Canada's first

Restriction-law that was passed on completely racist terms.

(After the railways were built the Canadian Government saw no use for
the Asian community and tried to send them back home by restricting their
only materialistic pleasure)

These are all examples of the things the tour has taught me.

I could go on, it was very informative.

Once the tour is complete, you are brought to the museum location.

You are told the way it works:

The place is always “closed”.

The windows and doors are caged.

You knock with something metal to let the inside know you’re waiting.

You are taken into the space between the door and the outer cage.

You are asked specific questions about the tour to prove that you were one it.

If correct, you are led inside to the first room: posters,

Information on drug and war, handouts and political flyers…

The second room, behind the curtain, is the lounge: there are always

Groups of people blazing in there. The room is a constant hotbox and it makes me

Feel fuzzed and content just by being there.

The third room is the objective.

At any one time there are 2 to 6 dealers behind the tables,

All with whatever they are offering laid out on the table,

Feel free to browse. Feel free to ask questions.

Make your selections.

The last time I was there I got $100 worth of HINDU KUSH.

I have never walked out of that place with mediocre bud.

It has always been top quality.

AND NOW

I RANT IN HYSTERICAL ANGER

THAT THE MUSEUM WAS RAIDED BY POLICE

THREE DAYS AGO,

AND EVERYONE SERIOUSLY INVOLVED WITH IT

IS NOW IN PRISON

SO FUCK THE CLAMP DOWN

ON VANCOUVER

BECAUSE OF THE FUCKING

OLYMIPICS.

MAN,

I HAVE TOO MUCH TO SAY ABOUT THIS.

People try so hard to consider the law so that others

Can simply

Get high.

Can SIMPLY enjoy

Herbal, earthly grass. A great motherly gift.

So much effort went into this establishment

And now, besides all the fucking disgusting junkies hanging out

All around this place (on East Hastings) getting their DIRT FIX

Right in the fucking middle

Of the fucking dirt street

Is tolerable.

Yes. THAT is tolerable.

FUCK that.

These words are not mine..

... but I received them through my mind...

Unknown womanly spirit, how are you?

"Wise wanderer. My companion mentions you
and tells me of the colours of your soul.
To my deep eyes, you are bright.
In sadness, your gray eyes are suns
to the universe of Shadow.
The creatures of your mind are starving.
They mass-create, they are keyholders
to unlocked voids.
O, wise wanderer.
I have dragged a helpless human body
across the dirt of your planet.
I have birthed and slaughtered.
In Time, each soul must know each path.
Now I am here in speech to adjust the
emotions of you,
helpless human.
There is so much beauty we spirits cannot
completely leave at home.
There is so much thought
that goes into ugliness.
Are you glad that we have spoken?
I'd like to speak with you again.
I have been of comfort,
and of course,
I am but a stranger."

Then I said: Micheal,
you know beautiful, hard-featured wordsmiths.

I contemplate, I learn
To understand the aches
Of tension in my entire backside
Because
I can’t look at myself
In the mirror
and that gets knotty.
I get up to fetch pain-relief
And distract my instant mind

I’m into the tunes,
I’m into my imagination:
I’m in.
I ask myself why I’m standing
In my kitchen?
As I linger in the silence of
Blank thought
My hands act without my intension
And I regain consciousness
As I head back to my activity
With a beer.

Oh, honestly.

I can’t possibly be this worldly.
I can’t possibly stab this tightly
As to slice thru this life completely
And go, virtually, unseen.

Go!
Be on, be on.
You know the way I jive.
Stop it.

He says to me: yesterday
My imagination was good. I wrote a poem.

I know why!

Because I got him bomb high

At the New Amsterdam Café after work.

I have made scattered, real friends.

I already think of what next place
Can move me.

HEY, DO YOU REMEMBER YOUR LIFE?
The scariest thing
About getting Age
Is being able to actually look back
At eras
Of yourself
And understand,
By LOOKING and not BEING
I remember myself at times.
Sometimes, I really do think back,
And I really do think myself
An intensely evolved person.

When I discovered this subconscious-function
Within my aging self I frequent:
Sit and calm at night and reflect upon myself by day
To get a clearer understanding
Of my-now projection.
It’s impossible.
I tell myself constantly
To be shyer and observe;
To quit making sentences and laughter.
I recline when I’m calm, and calm further
And drift truly, into
Some sort of inner peace.
I project so positively and
I’m happy and kind.
But this version-of-me is intimate
Though I’d like
My calm self to be more bold.

I contemplate, I learn.
And yearn,
I do,
For the cycle
To cease.

card nine of the major arcana

do you read the letters
I have sent to you
Repeatedly?
Do you, honestly
Revisit any of my lovenotes,
Regressions, or rantlings
To banish you of your thoughts of me—
To get your fix
Of my junk
So that you are able to continue
Seemingly effortlessly
To keep me banished.
Do you keep your crave satisfied?
That you manage to constantly Be
Without my word of Now.
That you manage, most indefinitely,
Without me.

I know you have not forgotten about me.

Do you go back to the old print
To remind
Your mind
Of the way I thought of you?
To recap this madcap,
And to do it all in secret
All like a hermit
And in repression
for the explosives
of our actual speak?

I consider it all very haunting.

I will be truthful here:
I reread the letters I have sent to you
More than
The letters you have sent back.
I read into my past
Far more
Than yours.
To ask myself what I did
That was so wrong
To have things be
The way they are now.

I am never satisfied.

spiritual suffering

what of this filth?
what of this monster,
this crazed incompetent Know.
something about "a million miles
away" truly makes me weep.
truly,
the distance
fascinates me.
i believe in my soul.
i believe i keep myself away
from Know
to stay here.

I mean to say a lot of things
but i've taken to silence.

there are expressions all around me-these
gorgeous things
i hope
to in a lifetime
of lifetimes
achieve.

why is there SO MUCH filth?
is there wisdom in it?

I light a cigarette in contemplation.
I created myself
to find out.

I created myself eternally lost
to keep on finding out.

hello, discovery.
so, this is your face.

this is your expressionless face.

in my many lives
i have not uncovered.
i have died each time
a child.
when will age finally reach me?
must i sit in meditation
for enlightenment?

these questions are the filth.

there is a heavy existence
i must undertake.
there is a world to see.
perhaps,
if i see it all
in this one life
there will be no need
to have another.

Green Earth,
i'd like to stripe you of my soul.
i'd like you to want loneliness
and to have not one roaming being
left at roam.
Green Earth,
in my worship
i do adore you.
i'd like you to be less humanly.
i'd like to be the first
to never
come back.

i'd like very much for you to simply be green.

but how?
imagining myself as a mother
i would choose always
the company of my reckless children.
of my children beating each other,
of them inventing foolish things
of them doing nothing
at all.
i would choose beyond doubt
to remain in filth, and
to give filth further
to my offspring.
to lend them the quality of Lost,
a mind without knowledge
but a mind with
massive potential.
i would love them, dearly,
for trying to escape themselves.

this must be the way of earth.

i understand that pain is existence,
and that by creation, pain is only spread.

i will be a mother one day.
the pain i will bear to birth
will be the suffering left
for my children
to survive.

your bashful, blushing face...

child, why do you weep?
this day has inflicted unto you
no harm.
your bashful, blushing face
is fleeting with your sanity.
you are lovingly outraged.
you are love.
a stranger has wanted you
more than your best friend.
a stranger has loved you
more than any lover you've known.
child! you are not ashamed.
you are on display.
the suffering of your soul
is provoked.
is aroused
and stimulated
like sex to the addict.
child,
you are ageless.
feared and fearful.
but why, on this ordinary day
do you weep?
what are you concealing?
speak to me!

quick note

so what? that this song
was IT to inspire me lonely, but;
go! and, HEAVE. i got myself there.
so what?that this
reckless and wreckful thing of hate
and absolute pristine poetry
inspired me HELPLESS
this past summer
this past before-my-break
this past.

the piper dawning gates

dear youth,
i can already regress era's of you.
honest; i take a listen to the first,
great, actually obscure album of
my psychonaut career and i;
mindthump with awesome
rejuvenation.

i feel now exactly as how i felt then,
discovering the sound,
discovering the TANTRIC colour-wheel.
severance.
but now i have then to look back on, too.

i want the spirit world back
so badly
i literally get wet in desire of it.
i want to fly int he cosmic air
and read the minds of humans
and lend them dimension.

look at the stars on the palms of your hands
now look up
and see
the blinking stars.

end thought.

if the wind don't like me blow me away
if you, sailor
desire a feast like fleeting soulfood
keep me close.
keep me bare, you disaster.
revolting enlightenment.

that i live worldly,
that i have detached.
that god and the Tao
totally
turn me on.

i bold my voice-thoughts
and swallow
and play a different fool
to every expression that i meet.


these momentums:
most humanly being of sex.
i knew the snake, sailor!
but now i know you.

shut up.
i do not sex.
no,
awful.

camera's on auto-timer, okay, now throw yourself on the floor...

blur/just now V

i'm getting my mind back. i'm touching root i'm
expanding and bringing it all
closer to me.

i can't remember being born.
i can't remember how i'm going to die.

no. am i still a child?
how many things full grown must i do
to be full?
must i devour
to grow?

i loath the question.
i loath more, when it is in my voice.

there are people i hardly know
though certainly
care deeply about.
not of their worth to me, but-gorgeous fucks.
of their worth to the goddamn world.

this is how i know i have grown.

i care now. less of myself, far less of myself,
and everything for everything around me.

i light the match to take my age away.
i take the drags and feel my youth slipping.
a future thought may deliver me tears
when it's not just my confidence unknown
it's the truth.

Aah, i hate being born.
to enter and re-enter this awesome trip.
i'll keep on saying it! the earthly life is a drug
for our souls.
and in my human body
i move to the void of the inbetween
and truly
i am universal.

where are the colours of my mind?
there is some ancient vessel that releases their space
their raw their tantric sex.
i've started tapping at it. dreaming, tripping, fleeting:
one earthbound day it will certainly bust.

the colours will fly!
my soul
will
go
home.

and miss this mother.
careless and everything motherly.
i will look at her children on the drug
and want my addictions back.