Make me one with everything.

Once, several years ago at Joshua Tree, intoxicated from psilocybin mushrooms, and encompassed by cacti now fractaled as a Hendrix poster, the contrivance of time was revealed, and I bore witness to the unified nature of existence.

So that was cool.

Then a funny thing happened. I envisioned the origin of the universe: primordial strands of genetic material propelled through time, whizzing and evolving through the millennia, the whole of it rotating as if on the axis of a grand alpha helix, like something in a bad sci-fi movie, until the DNA finally came hurtling up through our very bloodlines, in the bodies of our own nameless ancestry, until it screeched to a halt with Raegan and me.

And there we were. After all that hullabaloo. Standing around as though nothing had happened. Then suddenly the genes themselves in all my cells were shouting, pleading with me: Make a baby, buddy! You’re nothing but a link! A rest stop. We’re genes, for Chrissake!! Don’t fuck with us. Keep us moving. We got places to get to you can’t even fathom with your piddling twenty-first century brain.

So, okay. Fine. Who am I to argue?


PS: Don't forget my reading!
Tomorrow night. 9 o'clock.
DIRE LITERARY SERIES
OUT OF THE BLUE ART GALLERY
106 PROSPECT STREET, CAMBRIDGE, MASS
Here's a map
Hope to see you there.