Frequent Flyer

Like the hobo described the Eucharist when he slipped into the line

At my Catholic grade school mass

A distant Wednesday ago

That is now a photographic residual of my psychic past...

"Damn, that shit taste like Ritz Crackers!..."

It made us all bust out laughing despite vicious stares

Of our nun based instructors

Who were neither here nor there

For these unfortunate layabouts that lay sprawled across our staircase...

I felt for them as I was ushered into the huge ornamental church

That could have been used to house their tortured souls

If the philosophy of religion worked in the way

Jesus intended...

...Ah, that taste described would return to my mouth

In my attempts to astral project,

And leave my body like my Mother swore she'd done

When she was flung, and roughly tossed from her living flesh...

...Given a choice of whether to die, or to invest

More time into her children's lives,

She choose my brother and me as opposed

To the howling void that had rose up above her bed...

The dry taste of pleasurable, yet dosed micro-dots of powder...

A hint of toast, and something made to slave

The senses...

This was the entry into a panic attack that kicked...

...My butt into third gear!...

The astral projection came quite soon after these

Self induced manifestations...

I do believe I lost the will to live in fear...

...And the busy-ness in my head allowed me total gateways

To a world I've rarely known!...

I hope one day to return if the odd enveloping taste

Reunites to claim my frazzled, battered sense...

I'd be a frequent flyer, if they'd only seek me out to re-populate their list...

I'm not sure how one gets called back to play bat

For something as enigmatic as being allowed to enter and exit one's own flesh suitcase,

But I'd love it if the universe would grace me with that option once again...

3/14/23

Bunny Villaire