I smoked some poetry before—in front of a rabbit in a cage in the middle of a room, a creative centerpiece for a museum. With disastrous results. The doctors have amputated my leg, have caused terrible effects on my human perception, that I no longer see the world as a friend who would cheer would see it—gloomy. I see it just as rueful as someone in the mall who would come to you and ask, may I take one minute of your time for this—
I smoked it in the form of a fusilli, (which I fondly think of in relation to snails), and not only did it fire my face because it was surprisingly flammable, but that it destroyed my lips, it was melted, it had to be torn apart. The sound was apparently a prolonged f, a voiceless labiodental fricative, a whiff of burning plastic.
I searched the line “how fibrous and incidental it seems”, and with half a million results, the eighth entry reading: bone tumors. Another: Large solitary fibrous tumors of the pleura as incidental finding…
I smoked some poetry before, but not with the certain potency that would make you read the line in a bus on the way home. It materialized, without having any intention to memorize;
it comes just as natural, in ways as immobilizing, as disabling as a hypnic jerk. (The person seated beside me shuffled in her seat.)
I tried to smoke some large-solitary-fibrous-tumors-of-the-pleura-as-incidental-finding poetry. It is fibrous, yes, and in many ways solitary.