Frequent Flyer
Like the hobo described the Eucharist when he slipped into the line
At my Catholic grade school mass
A distant Wednesday ago
That is now a photographic residual of my psychic past...
"Damn, that shit taste like Ritz Crackers!..."
It made us all bust out laughing despite vicious stares
Of our nun based instructors
Who were neither here nor there
For these unfortunate layabouts that lay sprawled across our staircase...
I felt for them as I was ushered into the huge ornamental church
That could have been used to house their tortured souls
If the philosophy of religion worked in the way
Jesus intended...
...Ah, that taste described would return to my mouth
In my attempts to astral project,
And leave my body like my Mother swore she'd done
When she was flung, and roughly tossed from her living flesh...
...Given a choice of whether to die, or to invest
More time into her children's lives,
She choose my brother and me as opposed
To the howling void that had rose up above her bed...
The dry taste of pleasurable, yet dosed micro-dots of powder...
A hint of toast, and something made to slave
The senses...
This was the entry into a panic attack that kicked...
...My butt into third gear!...
The astral projection came quite soon after these
Self induced manifestations...
I do believe I lost the will to live in fear...
...And the busy-ness in my head allowed me total gateways
To a world I've rarely known!...
I hope one day to return if the odd enveloping taste
Reunites to claim my frazzled, battered sense...
I'd be a frequent flyer, if they'd only seek me out to re-populate their list...
I'm not sure how one gets called back to play bat
For something as enigmatic as being allowed to enter and exit one's own flesh suitcase,
But I'd love it if the universe would grace me with that option once again...
3/14/23
Bunny Villaire