top of page

"Etude (on Being High and Being Unable to Escape the Thought of Dying)" by Samuel J Fox



Xanax moon, chloroform clouds, light a stream of ecstasy. The world: lucid tonight.

I go to work high sometimes and leave it drowsy with a tumor on my mind.

You do know that the quietest way to leave this planet is to inhale the ocean.

It will accept you. Then, the moon will ask her to spit you back on earth.

I happened to discover drowning while high on mushrooms: I forgot how to float.

I don’t think of death, however, as a leaving. I think of it as redistribution.

Jesus said nothing of how love, yes, is kind but how it is also a kind of murder.

If you fall into love, you end up skinning your knees for it.

Even if you grow into love, you end up being harvested for your sacrifice.

The best way to do LSD, I’ve found, is drops into the eye with friends on a planned day.

Magic pills or magic tea? One is less disgusting but the other causes indigestion.

How do you make illegal something that we all make inside our brains?

If dying is an art, then living is the process of constant review.

Apparently, the world has always been on fire ever since we discovered flame.

We created love as a thin line between what we live for and what will kill us.

Tonight, the azaleas are tossing their fronds in the air like a woman unknotting her hair.

I’ve flirted with a rose bush before while on LSD: her voice eerily like Barbara Streisand.

For the record, all of our systems, revenue, societal structures are inconsequential.

The only thing that’s real is now, between two voids; and then the gracious absence.

Lighten up: here’s a spliff. Smoke it and tell me that God wasn’t a genius for all of this.

Recent Posts

See All

Two poems by Mckendy Fils-Aimé

sipèstisyon If people say your child is beautiful, your child will become ugly. ok, i confess. once, i said fuck you to danny perkins on the last day of kindergarten after a miserable year of being pu

"Dead Things" by Beth Boylan

I feel compelled to pick up the baby bird that has died just outside my doorstep this morning. Place her in my hand and rub her toothpick ribs with my thumb. Gently kiss the milky-blue bulbs of her ey

Two poems by Daniel Edward Moore

Hey, Future is that you / in the moment / a Buddhist might love / enough to hyperventilate / or the day’s dizzy spin /of 24 hours / kicking joy / to the curbs / of chaos / blessed by Hallmark’s / squa

Comments


bottom of page