subtext

Once one morning in Virginia on the Appalachian Trail,

we stepped out from the dark forest

onto a ledge of rock jutting into the air,

the view across the Shenandoah Valley stunning

enough to almost make one believe in God.

A few feet from the escarpment’s edge,

like a sacrificial gift upon an alter,

a pile of human excrement lay covered

by a few scraps of paper as if with a bow.

Some after partaking in drugs, relate

an experience, a vision if you will, most profound,

transformative even, like a pocket

pulled inside out – – – often comparing

their evening’s chemical experience

to the weeks-long vision quests of some

native American tribes – – after all, this is

the age of convenience – – the quick fix,

even in spiritual matters. So listen close:

Back in my distant youth, almost a man,

during my sophomore year of college,

I often took hallucinogens.  One night,

I sensed I had to use the restroom; so I sat,

and wandered through the bowels of my thoughts.

Among the many lost profundities, I thought

about Elvis who had recently died, and heard

like a voice from heaven, my Aunt Hazel

bending over me fussing about wasting time.

Then I was home somewhere between two

and three years old, screaming for help,

my pants dangling at my feet, screaming

for my mother to save me, to help me

clean up my mess. Aunt Hazel stepped

in, cigarette dangling, grabbed some paper

and roughly got to the bottom of the problem: