Excerpt from my future project “Field Guide of My Mind” A compendium of dabbles on worlds that exist within me
![](https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fc6fc9950-10bb-41ef-a5c9-ce98cd8107c3_540x540.jpeg)
Welcome to the Mind Garden Mini Mart in the ancient city of master-sensualists. There sits the cashier of crime, counting the level of your lawlessness. For the prescriptions you can find vials of lunar dust and biohazards mushrooming in the backroom, feeding the children chemical indifference and poetic visions. They advise soul-vine for minor wounds, and reality for the larger. The mass diagnosis is hysteria, but it’s honeymooned here. The romanticization of every moral wound keeps the mind sane. Wracked with mosaic eyes and serpent skin, the Mama moths participate in the weekly memory gong outside, where trauma is dumped into the well underneath the Arbor. Machined motels operate in succession, silvering stalls harbor slime in the basement bathrooms. It’s complimentary to microdose the weather, raining rivulets of bubbles passing through like snow sinking into bone. Clouds of cotton and pilfering sting rays suffer into the scope above the windows. And intellectual gatherings bleed the deconstruction of a nation for cerebral profit. Yellowed backrooms reflect in the motels, and in the hues of the feather stuffed bedroom we eat the hearts of the politicians and instead evangelize the poets. Glowing is the open sign to the oasis of experimental academia. Taught obscenity and overindulgence of the arts. We imprinted patterns of the poets onto the children, branded barcoded brainiacs. Furthermore, narcoticizing the nation with promise.