november 14, 2001, and i’m high. it’s 11 o’clock. the 11th hour.
the taliban are broken and fleeing—like slaughtered chickens,
by the reported report of their leader, whose name
i forget but he didn’t have—doesn’t have—a catchy name like hitler.
now there was a name you could sink your teeth into.
not to be too bloodthirsty about it, but let us—us being me,
in my several manifestations of self, always alone but
never lonely—let us celebrate tonight the mixed blessing
of so many jihaders being eager for martyrdom under
american carpet-bombing and spooky.
oh spooky. to be under spooky. there you are,
you’re on the ground, it’s dark, you hear aircraft overhead
but you can’t see them and figure they can’t see you,
but spooky has the range down tight with a night-goggled
crew loosing tubes of fire with a thousand explosions
at their ends. you’re at those ends, farewell.
i keep getting distracted from our war and everything else
and smoking more pot, which sounds like a good plan to us—
all of me—right now. it’s a new moon making a useful excuse
for something where the true excuse has always been, when it is the case,
oh look—i have more pot—i think i’ll smoke it.
it is the case now, with a dozen three- and four-month-old
plants in what we call the studio. any time is pot-tea time.
or lame pun time. or smoke time. smoke the main brace.
once it’s burned through, watch the watch collapse.
before, or at the very start of, when tonight i began getting
herbally distracted, i made a list of goals for the next
two months. five they are in number, these goals, and here they are.
but first, another hit. i grow some pretty decent weed.
goal the first is to finish the periodicals, which means
to plow in a readsome way through the three stacks
of magazines etc. on the floor in front of the television,
which three stacks total
wait—
37 inches in height. such a forbidding lot of transience.
wait—
more pot. come to me, my lovely, my mary jane,
let us open a second front.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
the president and his secretary for war came last night to a party at my house
barbecue and cocktails, a bonfire in the back yard
i sat with the president and his secretary for war and we talked
the president was charming
he was a funny man
his secretary for war was a sourpuss who didn’t say much
my marijuana plants were growing in a row behind the house
they were young and healthy
i told the president see it’s not such a bad thing
he was noncommittal, changed the subject, made a joke
his secretary for war, a tall gray man
said it was time to leave
we were in the back yard sitting in white plastic lawn chairs
the president stood and began pirouetting across the yard to his waiting limousine
he was a happy man, a funny man, though he had about him the air
of distancing self-protection common among the famous
his secretary for war, not dancing
followed him to the limousine
i turned to one of the other party guests and said see he’s not such a bad guy
this other party guest said no man he’s bullshitting you—look
he pointed towards my house
a small white helicopter fluttered down out of the night sky
standing on one of the helicopter’s white landing skids was a soldier
armed with a heavy machine gun, he opened fire at the back door to my house
the bullets were explosive
white flashes and sparks erupted
my house caught fire, though my marijuana plants still stood
silhouetted by the flames and explosions
the party was over
the helicopter landed
the soldier told me it was time for me to clean up all the mess
housecats stood on naked wires in front of me as though on clotheslines
i was to turn a rheostat to send current through the wires
to see how much the housecats could take and what would happen
and when would they die
i turned the rheostat
the housecats’ paws began to smolder
the housecats looked at me, their eyes were green
i broke the rules and turned the rheostat up all the way to get it over with
the housecats fell smoldering onto the wires
the wires burned through their paws, their legs, their whiskers, their jaws
and the tops of their heads
they fell from the wires
there were the smells of burning fur and flesh
it was day and my house had burned down
(Published in High Street: Lawyers, Guns & Money in a Stoner’s New Mexico (2012, Outpost 19); copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“Truly, one’s appetites are never satiated by enjoyment. On the other hand, like sacrificial butter poured into the fire, they flame up with indulgence. Even if one enjoyed the whole Earth with its wealth, diamonds and gold, animals and women, one may not yet be satiated.” – The Mahabharata of Krishna-Dwaipayana Vyasa, Vol. I, Sambhava Parva of the Adi Parva, trans. Pratap Chandra Roy