Huxlian Slam

Let me tell you of a man, now sunken in the sands, so wise and far ahead he knew what we demand. He saw the human breed, so weak and full of need, and he told the world why we cry inside and plead please; this man named Aldous Huxley.

In a banned book that spoke of doors, that philosopher implores, a momentary alteration of the stigmatization that still remains so prevalent throughout our nation. He says the use of drugs and meditation can produce such a sensation that is absolutely necessary for the tedium cessation. That our sanity follows zero sum, and without a break we will seek the gun to end the madness, the sadness, that brings us to our knees.

So I seek the medication with impressive dedication, and embark without hesitation on a psychedelic ride.

And stop

the waiting, slowing, anxiety, growing, heart pulsation and

pop, the mind's dilation,

and the sudden rush.

Chipped tooth indented but not perceived, gone is the song screaming rape me. Sitting under the big box of the SUV, lights to heaven are fucking laser beams, sliced by the wires of the iris to be perceived, the Jeweled net of Indra reflecting on itself endlessly, shadows on the wall meant to deceive, the hoax, a joke called causality.

I emerge, surely on the verge of the greatest of discoveries, and see:

Its wrong

For the mother of three precious beings, those little things, to ask of her son for just one more, and fall asleep, dead on the floor. Scaring the lives of her loved by the abuse and the use of the ambrosia of the damned and discontented. 

Its wrong

For all the people in the shadow of the steeple to pledge compassion, but once out of the house and the sight of God they judge and despise lost sheep to spit at their feet if not with their mouths then with their eyes, fearing even the notion of compromise.

Its wrong

For our pride to scream in that stagnant dream, equality and freedom for all, for though the man in the suit may believe in his peers, to him the man named Spiderman who asks for a beer, is beneath the law due to a flaw of misfortune.

Who are we in our singularity of sight to know the multitudes that our ignorance slights, those poor victims of our lonely and destructive plight. To this Huxley may surmise, to the perceptions we give rise to leave ourselves and taste other lives, and only then will there ever arise a semblance of empathy.

And therein lies the last hope for humanity.