"Iboga" trip haiku set

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