Herve’ tells me sure, it’s mystical, a transcendental
Place, somewhere in the jungle, behind the mud-brick
Dwellings that face the road in his village, thatched the old way
with palm fronds, or, if possible, sheet metal.
The reason, bro, he says, that anyone would go there,
Is for initiation, for power to heal, and there are rites
with plants. The ones you encounter there are the
Dead, who can be seen, but not heard, or touched.
Just like us ~ our words fly onto respective screens,
Our heads, the little images of ourselves, sit beside
To illustrate who writes. He’s chosen himself crouching
In a baseball cap and blue t; me, green zippered sweater.
There’s a road, what we’d call a path, a worn
Cut up a hillside bank in deep forest. And there’s the
Rooster, red hackles, scratching about in the duff,
And even the earth exposed is red, just as it is said to be
In the visions told by those who’ve returned.
I’m aware, as I dream, and remember, that I’ve arrived
at some destination, near something, but
Cannot tell if it is home, or death, or both.