I’m riding the night snake road eastward on my rubber road-wings,
Home to the Garden of our Delights.
A wild mushroom might be growing in our bed,
Fed by dark moist leavings of our past.
When I taste It , It tastes me back.
The colors come alive until they all burn white
And my eyes close to grow the Garden of brightly blooming waves of light & fragrance
inside of me now—
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