don’t call it a flashback

I do as I can to avoid drugs

other than those readily

available to me but

tucked away in some sac

Or gland other hidden

wrinkle of the brain.

A perfectly measured dose

triggered by random

but accessible memories,

a passing fragrance

an old photo

a song on the radio

moms cooking

that one shirt.

let those gaps in the brain

be flooded with the

transcendental ambrosia

our flesh has prepared us.

the sixty-ninth hokage

What might that world be like

where the curious monkey

never drank the rotten juice,

or consumed that strange alien fungus,

or took in those thick and billowing

clouds of smoke that emerged from the burning bush.

What might that world be like

where man sought nothing more

to stop the pain

than the works of thine own hands and fortitude.

Where it was never learned nor taught

that we were capable of giving up or giving in.

Where doing anything was better than nothing

and was everything you could ever need.

How those never ending city skylines

might reach out and kiss the heavens.

How the sidewalks littered with the hopeless

might instead be plated in the golden broken dreams

of those who didn’t resent them, but gave purpose to them

through contribution to the greater good.

How our children and our children’s children

would enjoy the shade and bountiful harvest of plentiful jungles

planted by those who walked before.

How the earth and all of its abundance might coexist,

only borrowing from each other with the intent to return with more

than was received.

How so many of those lost souls may have made it to the morning,

just in time for the light of the new day

to wash away those black memories we all have

woven into the organic and gelatinous fibers of

our DNA.