dimethyltryptamine

psychic raptures of half-closed holographic patterns
speak a silent theory of silver energy.

swirling light-beings touch and twirl, playfully unfurl
the soft-shaded mysteries of the universe.

an empty inner sky glitters before closed eyes, through
the window of my dream-state drift living sparks.

a smile of such peace creeps in and captures my face,
and it is my face but all the others besides.

it's the face of la que sabe (the one who knows), the divine mother,
the sons, the brothers, the sun's beams and earth's child.

the face of a million expressions directs their souls here
as their tranquility envelops and eases me.

i'm reluctant to open my eyes, but some ten seconds
or a lifetime later - BOOM (click),

i'm back in the room;
everything's different but almost the same.

el rio abajo rio

some sink there,
foaming, frothing,
betrothed to the beauty
so that the waking state
is bare as exposed bone.

some retreat there,
gasping, enraptured,
betrothed to their paradise found
so that the morning can only ever
be dead as colourless stone.

some disbelieve there,
rotting, scoffing,
betrothed to their reality
so that their every breath
gasps as an illness moans.

some simply see there,
appreciate, engergize,
betrothed to nothing,
so that their luz de la vida,
ever-present to infinity shines.

istan, andalucia

tiny white hillside dwellings, poised at altitude,
as though - like parachutes, they might take off.

their inhabitants periodically shed skin,
as cork trees, and reveal raw, red flesh.

i imagine them sitting at rest, eating bitter,
black balls submerged in jars of sea,

sharing bottles of wine where bits of
those same trees reveal raw, red 

and the sound of flamenco music.
as i walk, i ponder the arid dust

and musk of these red hills,
think of istan as a place of wanderlust.