The prompt for this poem was: it must have drugs, an animal and a mathematical equation in it.
We drove all night for the hell of it, hating wars and phonies,
to add our bodies to the throng-rally, imbibe tiny purple
squares on a faultless August day,
cops on horseback bearing down,
expanse of green commons, ash-covered
statues, monkey bars for long-haired youth of America.
Tear gas clogged our breath, we ran blind,
crashed in a church with open doors,
fucked on the altar, whoever you were, macrobiotic guy,
unequal to me plus
I was already pregnant, blastula cells dividing,
like slivers of broken chromosomes hidden in constellations,
checking you out spooning
frozen orange juice concentrate into your mouth and
making a pot
of brown rice, grains
wriggling smiley-face maggots.
The day lasted 48 hours: World War III, soldiers with melted faces,
a grandmother spurts and dies, the bloody child is born, all is quid pro quo.
Also, for a split second
I knew the square root of minus one.