Freelance Ethnopharmacology, and: New Industry, and: Where went ...
- Freelance Ethnopharmacology, and: New Industry, and: Where went ...
Freelance Ethnopharmacology
Eating and drinking, I don’t take the 2.5 pills prescribed at day’s end. Instead panic protects me, knowing already
anything anyone tells me, bunch of dumb dumbs running cannabis and ancillary firms
semiliterate burning the tips mute women manhandled til harvest; the cowgirls have all gone where
I am most needed, is where the action is at, towards where death accelerates attentive me, attuned
to what’s really going on, nerves not tingling in mine left foot, and left two outermost fingers, my heart’s
piston misfired – poem for the apoplectic – but she’s okay and lived to see thirty, and the hole by drill filled in
my calf, historically more trouble than heart, o my mortality and husband cat and car. O kitchen cabinet, o pill box, o pills. [End Page 151]
New Industry
The Day is anguish, rises on both coasts impossible early, and backlights online bank statements; is a dense mesh screen, absorptive, and The Day’s passive interferometric gaze decimates what’s left of the human contribution, assigns its motes and dusty money neatly — inputs and outputs — in ephemeral cells, and I long for my own cell, mine
shire, and for colocation of the feet and mind, less fluorescence. The Day insists upon hypocrisy; owns me and my minor collateral — skills, one shining reputation — until a girl saves The Day money, makes more money or makes her heart stop: A bad call by a politico bumps one empire against another, and The Day rises, bruised, reviles all complicit constituents,
and that’s my cue to take leave in classic french form, dissolved into the dawn’s most brilliant Day, intact, no compromised character The Day despises, unwilling to exert her desire, one too chatty voice broken at the end of sentencing but maybe The Day is just hungry, expectant of sacrifice, still, the rise [End Page 152]
Where went ...
Where went the savings and saving for the home, not a thing boxed or undisplayed Where went the staircase, dreamy ascension before desire desires modest flat Where went one cat for seven days, who knows only indoors now, a coo for the view every Where was morning Where went less is more until more is many small windows Where went the garments discarded When in Brugge the water was very close [End Page 153]
Julia Germaine lives in Massachusetts with her husband and cat. She develops and operates state-licensed cannabis production and dispensing businesses, and produces events for private and corporate clients.
