Waffle iron burns to the brain
Seared synapses from too much cannabis
A health topic so confusing
The lectures boarder on Schedule 1.

Who knows for sure
If they are doing any good,
These cannabinoid bits of knowledge,
To most of the students,
The lectures barely backed up with science.

The marks left from discussing marijuana
Burn away at the hyperbole from my education
Where we all know the truth,
But we also know the reality,
These lectures better be potent.

I’ve been doing the assignments that I give my students. This assignment was to make connections through Haiku between communication, the nervous system, marijuana, and a Ted Talk by Aimee Mullins.

Hopefully, I get a good grade. I’ll

Some people know stuff
Everything speaks in its way
Mullins understands

Central is the issue
Where attitudes are concerned
Weeds get in the way

Social acceptance
Not something legislated
A challenge of spoken words

Legs not there live free
For hope is an attitude
Walk with confidence

Smoke signals puff pure
True messages uncertain
Drug gospel shady

Alfie Pearce (Mushroom Grower, Music Friends of Sports Parent)

Things are getting tougher,
I can’t find workers for business.

Trump and all…

So I’ve got bigger problems
Than whether Watts and that bunch

Get their way.

I want music and sports in school.
I want to start growing marijuana,

Mushrooms are running their course.

Hot junction boxes
Plumbing leading to the sump
Some home improvements
Plants need that constant light source
Bongwater must go somewhere


***Evidently my old neighbor was something other than a chef… It’s good he’s gone.

Prohibition brought the drying of taste buds,
A temperance thought to solve
All evils.

The Depression brought desperation
And the reality that people wanted
Their drinks.

Economic stagnation fueled empty coffers
Politicians sought to fill with new laws
On alcohol.

Taxes from the sale of beer and ale
Would bring the country back to
Fiscal greatness.

Sound familiar?

The weed has green smoke rising from its buds
That Feds have banned across
The land.

Medicinal methodology masks financial optimism
Under the guise of
Organic healing.

The symptoms of illness
Might feel less worse
Under the haze of THC.

But it’s the taxes that will drive the sale
Of this highly controversial drug with
No true purpose.

Yadda, yadda, yadda…

“I work in the CIA creating new identities for people. Give me a call if you need anything.”

That was the last time I talked to my childhood friend, Dory. We were all grown up and hanging at Paul’s Deli. In the years of running up tabs there I had heard a lot of stories, but this one was the best. It was late, or early depending on your perspective, so I nodded my head and took off. My old friend had suds mouth from too many pitchers of Mr. Busch’s finest.

From fourth grade until sometime in high school, I had been friends with all the kids who lived in my apartment complex. Two, Dory and May, were older girls who would prove to be my mentors into the world away from the complex. The other kids were all younger, so I was able to play like kids with them, but Dory and May were the two that I learned from.

Before I go any further, I didn’t learn any of that from them. Concepts, yes. No realities, though.

They taught me how to play cards, backgammon, and Truth or Dare (always go with truth). They introduced me to the cool older kids, although I wasn’t ever really in with them. The picked on me like a brother. Once Dory smacked me on the stomach with an open faced peanut butter sandwich. The bread just stuck there and after a few seconds of shock we ended up having a great laugh about it. Mostly, they got me out of the horseshoe where we lived and away from the house. As middle and high schoolers that usually meant Disco Night at Busch Gardens.

The Old Country used to stay open until midnight on Fridays and Saturdays in the summer. The bumper cars would be shut down and turned into a makeshift disco, it was the late seventies, after all. The Bee Gees, Sister Sledge and Earth, Wind, and Fire would take over the Octoberfest Bavarian atmosphere and give sleepy old Williamsburg a taste of Studio 54.

The three of us would get there early and ride some rides. Somehow I was always getting crushed on the Spider, but it was all good because I could claim I was there with two older girls. None of my friends could claim that. The reality was that I was tagging along because I was more little brother to Dory and May than boy toy.

I learned a few lessons at Disco Night:

1. Look across the dance floor and find someone who looks like they know what they are doing. Copy them.

2. Marijuana has a funny smell. The first time I smelled it was at Busch Gardens. I wrestled with how funny everyone thought it was that there was a joint somewhere in the crowd and my allegiance to law and order due to my father’s career as a cop was put to its first test of right and wrong.

3. Middle school boys have no chance against high school boys. The same is true for the next level. Interestingly, my friend equates “potential for harmony” to the “expense of the relationship.” He told his son that the son did not have the wallet for his college girlfriend who had just found another (way richer) boyfriend. I guess those early lessons only grow in complexity as we got older.

Each Disco Night would end the same way. We made a mad dash to meet our ride home, who was usually my mother. We would get there just as she was pulling up which probably was a little late and claim the night had been kind of boring, but the truth was it had always been fun in that adolescent way.

I moved in high school and after those Dory and May could drive I lost track of them. I ran into Dory at a party in college. I was hanging with some friends at VCU and heard my name being called from a balcony apartment. I hung at her place for awhile, but left her party without even saying goodbye. May catered my brother’s funeral, but both of us were too busy to catch up.

It’s nice to know that if I ever need a new identity that there is someone in the government who can help me out. Of course, that’s assuming she really is working for the counter intelligence dudes. My instinct tells me that it’s counter intuitive, but who knows? Now for that peanut butter revenge.