I don’t necessarily consider cannabis consciousness to be as the sun to a mole, yet I find myself in tunnels, rather obscured by their subterranean creation. Seeing the sun is such a hallowed zenith to that mere plumbing of photosynthesis. That vile greek gibberish, that compound absurd deconstruction of a winking miracle. Should I see the roots in the shoots? Or must I graft my branch of fear to the bow of the future? See how the guillotined cowering branch is fed by the stem of the future… Into a thread of life sewn through with inspiring looms and inorganic knits, moments of piercing stitches, that connect pain with serenity. My needle hasn’t the neck to swallow my heart. So I purse on prostrating myself to the guru of mystery. I conceded my deed to a passing cloud. The fruits cut from the fear tree are bountiful. My appetite for new tastes is ravenous. My palette demands two scoops of supernova. Tongue touches confirm my lust for intimacy with the unknown. Whether a new beet or a bud pregnant with waves of caresses…

The Jaguar slashed open my soft underbelly. I admired his coat while she devoured my liver. Gently I became accustomed to the furious flurry of blood around me. Being a bowl gave a new appreciation for lapping. My dying charm enveloped me and the mother Jaguar was humored by my nuzzle to her tit. It was hard to feel the warmth of the milk next to the raging fire of my pain. Halting, to cherish my nutrition, I plopped down on my mother’s furry stomach opening my eyes for the first time. My brothers and sisters clamored over and through each other, playfully tickling me with their nibbles.