Author: Karl Childress (---.net.nih.gov)
Date: 05-16-08 10:13
Getting There
By Karl Childress
Alice had her looking glass.
Jane and Michael jumped in chalk.
Luke just took a ship one day and through the sky he walked.
I have my way of getting There
But of this, I shall not talk.
Suffice to say from bottle I sip
Until the bed I flop.
The there is not where things tangible have meanings deep or seen.
There thought is real and life begins and ends again and means
That what we see may someday be or be somewhere between.
No need of air when I’m on There.
There lungs know what to do.
With ease I breathe in mercury and dine on acid soup.
(Soemtimes, I dance the Tanga-Tanga and play rough with Shai Hulud.)
I know so many people there
And see them all the time.
They climb There Mountain made of lava
And live on turpentine.
I’ve learned to fly in lessons there without the aid of wings.
With head fixed hard, concentration limp (impossible it seems)
I’ve soared through canyons, over trees, and hitched a ride on leaves.
Too bad when I’m sucked back to home from worlds barely remembered.
But work awaits, and bills and plates.
To clock my mind surrenders.
With foggy head I rise from bed and stumble through the door.
I must evict the colony grown in my mouth, once more.
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