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Li Bai, stoned


by strannikov


Li Bai's zest for wine

might perhaps have been assuaged

with some other taste:

 

incense for the soul

these green leaves of living jade

fragrance breathing soul.

 

Li Bai would light wicks

to light his joints, moving fire

to move other fire.

 

Li Bai rolling joints

would know how the paper's thin,

how not to tear it.

 

(Li Bai would lose it

at least once and mangle bad

his last paper leaf.)

 

nostalgic Li Bai

might drop Du Fu a few lines

wonder of the world.

 

Li Bai'd spy his jug

pity for his lonely wine

pours his pipe a cup.

 

Li Bai stoned would laugh―

a memory would check him,

his eyes would well up.

 

stoned, Li Bai would sing

his melodies would lift clouds

higher with his mirth.

 

Li Bai might prefer

all the densities of hash

with all its own fire.

 

(Li Bai gone astray

lost in Amsterdam's Bulldog,

a canal gets splashed!)

 

Li Bai stoned could hop,

his wine cup would never spill

with a loaded pipe.

 

stoned, Li Bai 'd write lines

that could lift or drop the moon,

his white pearl of dew.

 

(how the moon could spook

his poor kif-beclouded head!

he could dance for hours!)

 

Li Bai's gaze takes in

heaven and earth, the Dao daos

as he dares to drowse.

 

Li Bai late would sink

his eyes, late they want to sleep

from their hours of smiles.

 

Li Bai wakes next day:

“no hangover!” he'd been told―

hesitates―then stands!

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