hanging over Dr. Casteneda's weedy garden.
Amusing juxtaposition of name and place.
I'm in Mexico, need a doctor who happens
to carry a famous name that conjures up nervous
images in my mind of cannabis smoke, magic mushrooms
rituals, divinings, spurious traditions.
So many were enthralled by his teachings.
It was the 1960's afer all.
And then he went underground
imagined and manifested a cult, had three wives.
But not my Dr. Casteneda who shot penicillin
into my ass and cured the tropical infection
gave me a tri-colored marshmallow the colors
of the Mexican flag and a Coke.
So what do I have to say about a dead moth?
Nothing. Dry wings and dust.
I saw it on the windowsill not cleaned in months.
Take pictures because I always take pictures,
love small cameras and am possessive. Want to
own the moment--even a dead moth moment
papery wings on a creature I'd prefer to avoid
suicidal thrust against candle flame
wings beating against window pane
stupid senseless creature, death, dehydration.
What is the purpose on this earth, of a moth?
For me to take a close up photograph?
Wings evident in the abstract pale as paper
my friend with her huge papyrus plant
tells me she bought a small pot last summer
at the Farmer's Market and it's four feet tall now
and what do I do with papyrus?
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