The night my mother died I didn’t cry,
it was like dimethyltryptamine
flooded my brain with magnetic rain.

It was as though her death triggered a rush
of shrooms to flower in my mind,
and time and space had gone to kush.

It was as though I could hear her voice
like the voices of peyote shamans
singing their song of spirit into smoke.

It was as though every trip I’d known
was a road map to this sacred place
where I’d be motherless and stoned.

In my dream we open
my father’s coffin
but instead of his body
we find the body of a young man
hair cut and freshly shaved
scented with rose water and eternity
dreams in a mirror

In my dream we open
my mother’s coffin
but rather than proud flesh
we find a garment of white lace
exuding jasmine and eternity
dreams in a weave

In my dream we open
my uncle’s coffin
but instead of his strong body
we find a hunting rifle
in perfect condition
redolent of gun oil and eternity
dreams in a landscape

In my dream we open
the oldest grave
of our family line
but opposed to bone and dust
we find a pure white dove
embalmed by birth and eternity
dreams of flight

With a psychedelic sun in our eyes
why flinch at any fulminance
why fear the dark by governing time
why detach shadow from light
or singe the transparency of words
into the mirrors of other minds
why fear death when we’re the fuse
and can see with the light of reason
the stars girandole and brocade
the galactic chrysanthemum blaze
with rising tail and falling leaves
with candle clusters of celestial fire
and the grand finale of the eye
to be the light into which it dies

Spiders expelled from bells
descend on single strands
like a fine rain pattering
onto our heads and faces
as we shudder and laugh
and cry and rejoice