Tonight the house is so clean,
I feel like taking LSD.
Cleaning the house was part
of the preparation,
like Jesus was coming on donkey back
and you had to dust the palm fronds.
You knew everything was going to be
fresh and dewy like dawn in Disneyland
and you didn’t want to be caught squandered.
Christmas lights scrunching in the rictus grin,
early onset of blue light deep in the brain,
that characteristic flood of saliva
back of the throat like the Pineapple Express
melting inhibitions and restrictions on the seen and
making every pore a crater, every hair a telephone pole.
A dirty trip was a bad trip,
every grit of grime exaggerated
to the Chinese drip drip of a mind tied
to a prison plank and howling.
Your whole brain squeaked when the chemicals kicked in
and the walls melted in the pizza oven
of full psychic disclosure,
you wanted to be ready for revelations
on the level of your skin turning into stampeding horses.
It was a way of settling the dust,
decanting the wine from the lees,
preventing the bitter taste of physical existence
from choking your chakras, mangling the astral plane.
LSD was the mind’s cleanser,
the drug that made you want to vacuum the rug
and scrub the tub. What a waste:
a spotless house, and no brain left to wash.