Couched

There's smoke in this room,
here where I'm sitting on a throne
wreathed in what my seventh grade
science teacher revealed as cooled ash.
and it dances on it's ascent
as my state evaporates.

My mind is everywhere.
I've got a passport to prove it.
I keep one of the ripped out pages in my shoe-
the one with a stamp that reads HEAVEN'S BASEMENT.
That's what I imagine awaits underneath our soles.
That's what your folks might call Hell.
I ripped it so that I'd never go back there.

The journey's more comfortable when you realize
that instead of above us,
Heaven exists all around us.
Even now it's clear to see,
through drooling, coughing eyes
soaked in drops of smoke.

I wipe my brow
after another epiphany
about nothing.