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1.
Really we were stitched from aliens, Kent claimed.
And drugs, especially hard ones, the ones the state abhors,
Are the means we reacquire the lost unity of other planets.
We can’t see them normally, Kent added. But we sense their turnings
Among the spaces that have been incorrectly dubbed vacancies
When many asteroids and solar winds populate what we call space
As krill and coral in the sea. But, Kent admonished, we can’t see it
Unless we open our eyes very wide, only possible by means
Of artificial stimulants: oxy, ecstasy, or crack. The state
maintains its legitimacy by repressing this portal to knowledge!
Which, were it available to all, would vaporize its edifices
Into air! Buildings and beliefs seen through. The drug lords
Should be canonized. From whence does this energy come?
From the kids with piercings. Every junkie was a visionary once,
But stigmatized. Even my jeremiad evaporates into air.
A full professor of comp. lit once, now branded. The state derives
its sovereignty through such repression, as incapable
Of thinking outside the box as the box can think
Outside itself, or think about other boxes outside itself.
Hooray for the dealers, hooray for the drug lords: they keep it real.

2.
So our eyes are Saturnine, our fists Martian, and all else
Below the girdle Venusian. Our sixth sense comes from Pluto,
Its ice caves so acoustically matched to the sounds they capture.
Pluto is the numbness of the palate after the taste of the powder.
Our neural networks the streaks of meteors, the heart a segment
Of a sun that dies into an ember in the next thousand millennia,
The liver, spleen, intestines lunar, along with grey convolutions
Of the brain and medulla oblongata, seas of tranquility or choler,
The blood a magma from some planetary body liquefied by contact
With the sun, the ears vortices of anti-matter or collapsed stars,
But the emotions themselves from other planets. And each planet
Produced a race that only knew no more than two of them,
sensible because that way they didn’t conflict. But with dope
emotions fuse into a white-hot metal in the brain’s alembic:
Thus our innately mongrelized interplanetary nature coheres
Into a post-human species without fences or boundaries..
O that Dionysian knowledge that frees us, from shopworn
Notions of "rights" or sovereignty of the body, from ideology too!
Why? Useless. People fall into place, their nature, from
Other planets—not from themselves. Selves interpenetrate
In a white-hot collective intersubjectivity for which we haven’t names.
A visionary views one like himself through the rags he wears.
So If you see a prophet dressed in anything but sackcloth, run.