Peyote Poem by Alexander Roussel

Pink flowers wither in the desert stifling,
Coughing in the midday sun, begging for relief,
Calloused hands scrape the earth, slicing at green mounds
Peeking up from the scratching sand.

Discs-shaped wafers of chapped buttons bake in the heat,
Awaiting the chance to unlock the door to enlightenment,
Awaiting the curious pilgrim to place the wafer on his tongue
That oh so arid Eucharist, that bringer of visions.

Lips spread slowly in the dry air, teeth close ‘‘round the green,
Teeth grind dehydrated crowns, Saliva brings forth juices.
Stomach growls and churns at the bitter, bitter ambrosia imposed
Upon it. Vomit spews out ‘‘neath the native sunset.

Yellow and orange sand meld into green bile opening the door.
Eyes grow to saucers as the sun sinks down below the mesas.
Shadows on boulders stretch into faces drawing footsteps closer, closer
Further into Psychedelia…… Waves of knowing thrash about the mind.

Doors open wide, crackling on rusty hinges beckoning
Wisdom to come down from the stars. A lone bovine skull bleached in the day, Glowing
in the moonlight recants the prophecy of the ancients.
He leads in the ghost dance…… visions of the spirit will sang loudly in the dark.

Generations atop generations surround the faithful partaker
With outstretched arms. Hands wrinkled and gnarled reach out to caress faces Beaded in
sweat…… trembling in the desert cold. Whispers give peace.
Whispers and smiles give reassurance of life being led and paths being taken.

From sandy company flung up high to starry, starry night……
Among the orbs of fire –– each containing the truth.
Speed past white disc Moon than shoot down between the rubble of
Native lore. Songs grow violent and smiles turn screams.

The ugly beast claws her way out from behind the rocks, running wild……
Some banshee tearing ‘‘cross the grey midnight leaving a carnage trail.
Blood-soaked denial and the afterbirth of civilization litter the ground.
The placenta is greedily devoured by the she-witch…… that desert temptress.

Horrors disperse as pale dream specters scatter laughing into the hazy blur.
Primordial drumbeats soften to little more than the purring of the heart calming after the
ecstatic communion with the beyond…… such great journey.
Yet not so great. Had the pilgrims even left their desert fire?

Morning light. Dawn kisses pink, rose, amber, yellow ‘‘cross the dunes,
Shrubs begin to shimmer in the day, dew set ablaze –– white.
Lying stasis upon the cracked earth, the heap of limbs wait for the return to reality.
Tongue licks lips and eyes squint. Owl stares and watches the languid animal.

A cactus. Succulent morsel of divinity…… source of the Primal.
Wisps of knowledge, breezes of power, fleeting tastes of power.
Desert link to the ancestors’’ song…… the sun rises higher in the blue as the fist Clenches
tightly to the dried pink petals –– a quickly fading dream.