Revelation in Visio at a Santo Daime Ceremony – Milwaukee’s Worst
December 13, 2022
I paid twelve hundred bucks
for a trip in the Amazon, a Jeep through cannibal tribes
to shaman sitters lining a painting of Jesus, pissed off the cross,
scowled, hanging with the cosmos. Why? I was born in the wrong dimension.
In communion, I drink what they call the Christ bomb: ayahuasca, spirit blood.
It’s nuclear, not alcoholic. More what you’d expect to run through the Lord’s veins.
Within seconds, I’m shooting ropes of my intestines to snake around the room,
scream-puking, writhing while the shamans observe. It’s the purge,
step one of the anarchal outbreak of soul from consciousness.
I can’t look around. I’m stuck staring at the room’s corner
that’s bubbling black mold and springing fungal limbs
from the cracks between the floorboards
‘til the whole room’s infected,
brought to life with parasites.
I’m assimilated, losing track of my skin,
and the fly amanita’s growing so fast around
whatever I am that I’m starshipped, warp sped.
Oh, I get it. I’m dead, at the end of the rope,
a single eyelid perspective of shroom roots
scripted with faces of Mary crying blood,
and once I’m close enough to notice her,
she’s all I see, everywhere, saying things,
but flying too fast to hear, then I get so close,
I can’t see her anymore. She’s the smallest particle.
Ascending through her, I see the flat Earth, a pale line.
Behind me lies the straw that leads back to its surface.
In the distance, Redeemer rises, crafted once more,
this time, on a rood, but it’s got hands and a foot,
and scowled Christ desaddles and slaps the cross
across the face. It asks, “What have I done
unto Thee that Thou wouldst slap me?
Am I not Thine cross on which
Thou hast been hung for
Christ slaps its ass.
I fold the flat Earth
with phantom hands
into a paper sailor hat
and set it on His head.
He says, “Thanks, man,
but it costs more than that.”
I left my wallet in my pants.
Friend, if You send me back,
I’ll wake up in a puke-filled ditch.
I can see it through the shroom tube.
The rest of my months, I’ll march robotic,
speak in stutters, and see less as my eyes get wider.
There’re fat deposits on my soul. My eternity’s obese.
Tribesmen! Devour every piece of my skin and skeleton!
I know that no one ever leaves us, but all can turn to feces,
and shit with a soul’s gotta be some paradox, so God’ll shut it off,
send it to mu, the doghouse where walls’re still screaming outta earshot,
though I’ll see their shouts move in stink clouds, and shit, that’s existence, God,
how do I live without it?