Let's workshop this poem about a feel-good action of "fuck capitalism and fuck egoism and all that" that a man later regrets in the comedown from an entheogenic summit
Reentry
Dirty nails cradling it
at heart for hours
in “oneness with the native
maker,” he reburied
the petrified jug (valued
beyond a SoHo loft)
in the rufous sands
of its canyon cave—
unable to find it,
for the violent life of him,
in the psilocybin descent
of digging dawn.
“We need books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us.”—Kafka (against the safe-space cancel culture pushed by anti-art bullies, left and right)