Psyconaut

 I've been out in the smoky winds of cannabis,
where thoughts fade in and out of the interior vision,
where hunger strikes with vivid teeth,
where the canvas is never left blank and the refridgerator is never left full,
where anyone's a friend and nobody's an enemy,
where smiles are seated on the sofa of my face and hardly get up for anything,
where inventions constantly request my attention;
I've been up in the castles of LSD,
where the colors bend and the walls twist,
where the wind feels like God's breath,
where the ground flashes like a lightning-filled disco ball,
where revelations come often, in waves,
where the night is welcomed with warm embraces and the morning is welcomed with weary eyes, where the pupils tattle on themselves;
I've run through the offices of amphetamine,
where the workers are orderly and numbered systematically,
where food is unnecessary and sleep is shunned,
where the teeth are ground to prevent the dreaded onset of silence,
where the toilet seat is always wiped free from yellow drops,
where the shoelaces are always tied enough times to prevent them from being stepped on,
where the observations are neatly filed away in my memory;
I've been through the creeping mansions of diphenhydramine,
where noises in the night make my spine jump to a black melody,
where the mouth is lapped by the tongues of hellish flames,
where fear is essential to life,
where strangers speak kindly while preparing their knives, where delirium casts ghastly shadows on my cognitive forces,
where things appear floating before me and morph into strange drops of abstraction;
I've been out into the rainstorms of nicotine,
where reality spins in all of its dull glory,
where black spit cups litter the gray sidewalks,
where businessmen take breaks to smoke,
where fiends commit virtual suicide looking for a fix,
where brown leaves sway in the winds and land in the gutter,
where broken lighters fester on the lawns;
I've been in the side roads of alcohol,
where all is normal and venom-breath is typical,
where liver damage is quite common and domestic violence acceptable,
where the balconies sway until I fall off to my death, where my friends would catch me if they weren't drunk as well,
where bruises are ignored and vomit puddles are rarely swept up,
where warmth fills my gut and I take another swig;
I've been into the suburban homes of opiates,
where a floating buzz softly attaches itself to my skull,
where movement is unnecessary and where speech is somewhat difficult,
where everything's clean, and even if it isn't, it doesn't matter,
where the couch's cushion seems to be made of some type of adhesive material,
where tingling waves sweep over my body,
where bliss becomes truly apparent;
I've been through the jittery halls of caffeine,
where the lunchroom is filled with chattering workers on break,
where the aroma of roasted beans fills the copy rooms, where the job is never left undone,
where the mug is constantly refilled,
where the pee smells of coffee beans,
where drops of milk dissolve in the potent black abyss;
I've been in the bizarre, feverish lobby of nutmeg,
where the gagging force returns in torturous burps reminiscent of cinnamon,
where the eyes are heavy with tangled, pink veins,
where the body drags itself along parallel to distorted Time,
where paranoia reigns and the mind is feeble,
where pleasure pulsates for six hours,
where pain rebounds for thirty;
I've been in the gaseous atmosphere of nitrous oxide,
where empty cartridges roll around on the sidewalk,
where the mind and body separate like oil and water, where talking feels foreign,
where the dentist bends over me as I awaken,
where I mumble a little and laugh,
where they don't bother to ask what I'm saying;
I've been all over the world of psychoactives,
where emotions echo and amplify themselves,
where energetic thoughts violently burst from my skull,
where life is sometimes like Cloud Nine and sometimes like Purgatory,
where terror comes coupled with rapture, just as hydrocodone comes coupled with acetaminophen,
where prescription bottles lay outstretched on the counter, waiting for their activation,
where existence has one solid meaning,
where the mist doesn't clear, but is accepted,
where everything just makes sense for once.