pink elephants of boozeville – foto by Smith

Cannibal Saliva

Marijuana and Mozart on a Sunday morn
Plethora of complacencies
Of tongue, beard, bush

Poets fall down.

One of my side aims of not smoking cannabis sativa is to remember my dreams because when I toke daily it affects my short term memory buffers and I forget my dreams when I wake. (Of course my main and only real viable reason for not smoking pot is money – we can’t afford what it costs up here in the States.) But my amazingly great surreal story dreams only happen once every month or so, while most remain oddly minor surreal castoffs, like this one from last night.

Somehow I did something clever and left a physical map trail squiggle of how to do it again, but my squiggle accidentally got baked into a muffin and I was half afraid it was lost and half confident I could carefully break the muffin open and my squiggle string of truth would be retrievable and readable and reusable.

But that faded into me being shown how to legally paint a car pink with a bottle of Pepto Bismol, which I of course modified so that I could illegally paint two cars with the same bottle and get a brighter pink in the process; but I suspected I was dreaming and wouldn’t be able to bring this cool pink car painting knowledge out of the dream with me and was worried the technology would be lost.

Then my plane landed and I saw Cher with her long neck and Mona Lisa smile resting on her back on the concourse floor, surrounded by half packed baggage with cheap colored aluminum foil fantasy paintings spread about her head and I was going to tell her I loved the paintings but then looked closer and saw all the hidden demons and dark and trouble waiting behind the trees and beneath the leaves and I felt so sad being older and experienced and cynical and tried three times to tell her “I hate being grownup,” but kept losing the words in the breaking sobs of my thickened throat.

These are not dreams worth not smoking grass for. I like being high, buzzed, especially after toking for 43 years. Grass and I are friends who get along, except for the financial cost. I wish I could at least drink alcohol, but the last time I drank 20 years ago I drank myself into the emergency room and 6 pints of transfused blood and it was somewhat iffy whether I was getting back out, so I quit when it turned out I was going to live.

So here I am, yearning for a buzz while all the chemicals and pills and hallucinogens and powders and liquids and needles and whatnot have fallen along the wayside over the decades because my body and soul can no longer handle them and no longer need them leaving me down to one cup of strong black Costa Rican cowboy coffee a day and a couple tokes of devil weed a month from passing friends and family.

This is not the life for an outside the barcode outlaw like myself.

Can’t just up and go back to Mexico’s $6 an ounce grass because we now have a cat we love and can’t leave, so I guess I’m going to have to generate more money up here, or else just get used to the so-called normalcy of unstoned life. I was straight for 75% of the time of the 31 months we traveled the world — found grass and hash and opium for 7 months in London, France, Amsterdam, and Mexico, but the remaining 24 months of no drugs at all didn’t bother me at all, since once I don’t smoke for a week the need goes to sleep, though never the desire.

~ ~ ~

* Explanation of above poem title: Cannibal Saliva is a pun on Cannabis Sativa. The tongue, beard, bush reference is me with my beard performing cunnilingus on my girlfriend’s bush — so since I was “eating her” while stoned and my saliva was mixing with her vaginal juices, I ended up with cannibal saliva. This was on a nice sunny Sunday early morning back in 1974 with Mozart playing on the stereo.

sin dealer – foto by Smith

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