she left.
and so, we quiet it with drugs.
it was a steel tin, wrapped in brown paper. tied with gritty twine.
authentic to an underworld. smell and odor and aroma instant.
this was born into the earth - this was born unto the earth.
years of non-commitment. years of non-possibilities.
years of research, reading it out, analyzing it all, speculating it out.
dead texts, bloodless.
graded bungie cord safety. there is no overdose without the dose. the first, the pure, the virgin sweep of chemical or botanical lust swallowing you dead as a burnt wheat field. thick burnt vapor becomes your portrait. thinking through gestating murk. there is no flying without those wings.
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