From the Melted Hairs of the Fractal Flower

Mistress Magu, Cannabis Deity

Melt the hairs off a flower. Inhale and let them settle into your mind. Your flesh becomes a tongue and you taste yourself. You are sweet.

She appears in much the same way as the sound of a cello fades. You can feel her in the part of your smile that is in the back of your head, the part where nothing lives, where the sidewalk ends and the dancing begins. She never stops moving.

She whispers in your heart that you are hungrier than you have ever been, not to eat but to taste, taste so wide it slips its chains and colors sounds, and you dance from hearing to listening to being, being thrummed, up and down like the skin of a drum.

Did you know the solid mass of you can tingle in this way? Did you know you could fall off your own slopes this lazily? Did you know knowing could be so rapturous?

Riding your own thermals, you tumble in the hot air of your breath the way the silky trichomes of that fractal flower floated into the sponge nestled in your rib cage, only to ride your blood into the perfect nooks and crannies of your neurons, pulsing their pulse, pulsing their pulse.

“What was I saying?” You ask. She laughs and laughs and laughs and she teases you with it, making you dance on the tip of your tongue until you collapse into a pile of yarn spun from all your effort, all your best performances, all your ridiculous buttoning-up.

She's the robin hood of the subconscious realms. She steals the dreams from the richness of your sleep like the fox that she is, and she pours the hidden waters of your nightly underworld into the begging bowl that is your daily conscious mind, filling you with visions.

And when you do sleep, you will sleep like your ancestors, in the hot and heavy ink of the distant past, back into the death you were born out of, a taste of the familiar nothingness that will come when she is done playing as/with you. And you will love it, and she will love you.