three spoons

three spoons lying on the table
all identical, all different.

rusty from the years of solitary confinement on the shelf,
they are ready.

the first spoon:

the fog from the sighs of lilacs
it contains the smoke of the mind.
one tastes it in odd places
the gas station ladies' room
during a large assembly

it is a pleasure to feel the fumes burst into your mouth
and fill you will verdant thought and emotions.

it comes in unpredictable moments of peace.


the second spoon:

a paste of toads and doorknobs
it is the moment of shock.
not surprise, but shock.
this sudden punch in the stomach can be good.
but no one likes to be shocked, breath becomes scarce
sweat becomes present
and the mind goes blank

the acrid taste fills the mouth for just an instant.


the third spoon:

a liquid of metal and fungi
it is that moment of self-realization.
you become aware of yourself.
so difficult to describe,
it can be good or bad.

you feel yourself breathing
you blink and comprehend that you can control those windows to the world
an alien sensation fills you

and you either feel child-like wonder
or unwilling emptiness

-Pamplemousse