i let my body drift here imagine where i let my mind go

if I'm misshapen now beware
my days of coming.
this flesh will abandon youth
with haste and nasty telling:
my eyes will speak of every high
my skin will lie to you--
my presence
will be
surreal.

I take the load
and know
this simply
of the parallels I'm approaching.

in my ideals the foolishness and
adventure I face myself with now
will reflect extraordinary.
in my fantasies i live an awkward
and important life.
I take the load.
I inhale it large.
I can feel my body aging,
I can feel my soul getting a little younger:
soaking into my mind
and taking on the project of somacy
and as my Self now grows older
the balance of experience
and spirituality
drip into each other.
The void behind my consciousness
decays and takes my human with it.
The soul and mind reconnect:
I search for death to find genuine
youth.

Now, experience.
Get this living through and conquer
so that this TRIP is learning:
colourful and birthing to
True Enlightenment.

the magician

Love is lusting
and the God of Love does lust.
Fearing its maker, fearing even,
the things it creates.
There is war in outer space.
You humans must comprehend
how high
you can really get.
Now, the sky. Now,
be in movement.
Hereditary mental deficiency.
The blind norm is consuming
in action, but courageously,
the mind is thumped upon.
Humanly pure humanly thoughts
and emotions are
raging and forcing exit.

I beg my body to let go of my mind.
I would be me, again.
I'd be of no identity, and beatific.
I think of myself in ecstatic joy like this
though I remain trapped
in this consciousness.
This is the escape I search for--not
city-to-city dwellship
begging for the tangible rockload
being at the point to conquer
then flustering away.
It's thrilling.

I think of the worship my human self has
for the higher Thing of soul.
I know, truly,
that creation is creation.

I'm speaking to you from the box.
Once you get outside
you understand you've only moved
to a larger box.
I think to myself, I think: what of
this existence?
This numbing stream, green trip,
there are worlds
and there are livelihoods.
I am living an era of one of them now:
I watch myself.
I don't
like
myself.
I have ideals. I do not function.
I am without euphoria.
I want this place, okay?
You must learn love. Keep from suffering,
though that is life.
But, what is peace
but boredom?
It is pleasant though vulgar.

War inspires art.
It's wrong.

We are within a twist of existence.
We are hesitating from enlightenment,
we are mischievous
and limitless by story.
Do you understand why Earth is called Mother?
She has birthed us, we are her every feature.
The sky is bold. It is the expansion.
Boxes.

I wish I could tattoo my aura:
the infinity sign over my head.

to elaborate on later

the world
i've said it before
the world is my most adored.
when there's jazz playing
at the Cambie beside the drinking Cambie
i've got the noise in my head.

a stranger said to me today: i wish
everyone was more like you.
and i felt insecure.

i am beginning to sense something new
and something emotional: grown up loneliness.
drastic and different from the childish innocence
of being alone in younger years.
i know now that i have experienced hurt
but this knowledge is purely reflective.
i wonder
how much
pain
i am in
now.

toking is joking

we lounge madly getting minded out
with laughter and constant laughter.
i put on blonde on blonde
not that i'm too into it,
but that its great
and on its rainy day opening track
he sings: everybody must
get stoned
and everybody in the room
tokes at the same time
and gets
a little
higher.
i laugh to myself
and wonder
if everybody else
is smiling
thinking the same thing.

compassion is the way

my manager says: no, we can't buy pot on the company for the staff party because we'd need a receipt for it.
kloe laughs: these girls actually have a place that gives receipts, man, be careful.

wind, blow that other way

my room
mate
is naked
in the other room
completely
with a camera
in front of her

i interrupt
for a quick lifetime
for a smoke
and steal
a lighter
from the set

today is an extra
terrestrial day.
i was worn like a Day
and psychic-lady
from the Arms Forces, Global Unit
sits in front of me
on the bus
and looks.
she says of the crippled woman
who just took her exit: what a lovely
and proceeds: everyone's getting in tune
it's like a dance, a jive,
and everyone will pick up.

a small asain mother with
a bouquet of flowers speaks up, too,
laughing and joking unless we all have two
left feet.

i smile
i gleam
i know she sees me
i have bright colours on
and a oversized symbol of peace
embroidered into my bag.

i carry myself in peace

at least at this most pictorial situation.

she introduces herself to the driver, and walks off
at the same time i do
in her badges and uniform
and bohemian accessories
bleached hair zipped back
heavy, hard, jaw line.
heavy, hard, voice.

i am blown away.
i am on my way
to pick up my passport.
i am purely intoxicated
with the magic herb and
this is an extra
terrestrial day.

my roomate is naked in the other room
she's posing for kicks.
she has a yin-yang of good and bad circling her
i am in this next room
reflecting on my afternoon so far.

2:37 pm: i sign off and go back to collect
my laundry
at the soapmat.

shocking incapable.
i don't put out for the disease
i'm perfectly ashamed
to share some of my thoughts;
vulgar, mischievous,
blatantly untamed.

Nervoucious Rex.

my calm unbearable, i'm sure
i'm seething like water underneath.

i'm at a very traditional cafe:
i've already today met a gorgeous soul.
i've interrupted my broken thoughts
with that which are My Human
and ponder the Beauty of the girl
at the cash.

Oh my.
she's wearing a girdle under her work shirt.

let me observe in this book and be nasty.**
Oh,
maybe not outloud.
but write provocative and most provoking
because it isn't wrong
to disfellowship thoughts that come
without morality.





**the last sentence I copied from my handwritten book

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.