Academic journal article Chicago Review

Psychedelic Garden Poem

Academic journal article Chicago Review

Psychedelic Garden Poem

Article excerpt

I had been thinking so much

about the Songs of Innocence that I swore

I woke up inside of them.

"I love my haters"; "Nature is..."

I relapsed on my pneumonia

because I drank wine and went running

in bad weather or did I swim

in Lake Paradise or take a bicycle

into the forest or did I drive

past New Times Country Buffet?

At Patient's First, the walk-in clinic,

I got a prescription for a second round

of antibiotics called Augmentin.

Augment me, s'il vous plaît.

In the waiting room,

I let a little girl watch a cartoon

bunny hop in a swamp on my phone.

Sound the flute! Now it's Mute!

The nurse says I have a slight

fever, the mother says "thank you,"

Craig says you know they assume that

everyone who goes there is

a drug addict; the TV host

gives advice to a couple

on how to fix up their second home

and rent it out; the wife says she wants

short-term renters because

that way they can make more

money. The husband wants long-term renters-

it is a problem. Were my lungs

lying to me? Tofu and mashed potatoes,

my friend posts a picture on Facebook

and a stranger's status updates: "still kickin'"

"so what you gonna do?" "in tha sticks"

"workin workin" "who wants to kick it?"

Why is it you can upload

a picture of your face and it only

looks pretty for a week or

two then it's on to the next

picture of your face slowly

dissolving and every poem seems

weaker than the next one. I was convinced

that this was the Songs of Innocence.

A philosopher tweeted about

taking his records through airport security: "I am

to my own heart merely

a serf" and inspected them closely

by wiping them with a cloth

became a medieval green

Sumer is Icumen

inside the Songs of Innocence

and also I was inside mold spores

on the wall of the apartment and side

effects include this garden

which is a kind of unpaid labor

as my voice here singing to you

is also a kind of unpaid

labor and unpaved road

to the aquifer beneath my body

there is something that wants

to hold the world and it has nothing

to do with my pretty face

or my lungs which are failing

and full of rain and wine. …

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