It was a third floor apartment
with patio doors off the living room
to a porch looking out onto a 4-lane,
busy with traffic, Moravia Road.
Evening’s gray was giving an edge
to the exiting orange-glow of the day
that was leaving through those doors
at about the same pace the Sunshine Acid
I’d put on my tongue a half hour ago
In harmony with this transition
I left the lights off, a bit anxious,
synapses popping behind wet eyes,
that when the total dark of night
controlled the room I would be
peaking in its grasp.
This tic was replaced by
a dawning sense of warm euphoria
as the room settled into a soft humid glow
and Eleanor Rigby’s scraping bows of violins
were totally liquid within me.
I was as alone with its pulsing
as Father Mckenzie and the other lonely people.
The darkness, now part of my psyche,
gave a nocturnal life to the walls
blooming with energy,
textured like fog –
even the nap of my flannel pants
was quivering with a warmth
and life of its own.
I opened the curtains
as the beige street globes came on
adding color and definition
to the traffic that flowed
down roads connecting
the parking lot below to the planet –
trailers of headlights branching out
in all directions to everything.
Turning back to the sofa
I felt a squash under foot
as the large-leafed fern
let out a faint scream of psychedelic mishap,
bleeding green ooze under my now heavy,
traumatized Cole-Hahn suedes.