(a meditation)
Put out the fire in your mind.
Worship the sheer
promiscuity of creation,
Syncretism's corridors
between the crated hordes
of crashed civilizations,
wherein I sit on threadbare cushions
contemplating Thomas Aquinas.
Chairs all quiet, down
to one cat, Mister Bingley.
Dark salt chocolate,
mysterious granola.
I'm the mushroom controller.
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