- Non-Erotic Poetry
- "Iboga" trip haiku set
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In twenty-thirteen,
we knew not our own faces but
pop sarcopha-guise
factory priests pressed
Christ-crackers into small hands,
soon balled in hell-fear
in “the world,” old
institutions contorted
to sad labyrinths
flowers and posh teas
came in armadas for the
Boston Amputees
a cloudy May sky
rocks a pink shard-moon like a
semitic air-strike
somewhere wayward in
America, a resort
burns Iboga lamps
above sulfur pools
and tiled steam-rooms, dragon flies
dream on grass-blade beds
drum the lion hide,
caress the Bwiti harp;
nausea clouds part
with a C pop caught
between numb lips, I swallow
through bark-sore throat valve
gazing at Ashland’s
absurdly verdant green hills,
a dark door appears
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