We all know the answer—the question's too simple.
Instead, methamphetamine clouds join the thunder
Of sugar and caffeine; to addle the senses.
It's faster than ever. A hurricane gathers
And carries the waitresses, truckers and farmers
On powdery wings—that are dripping with whiteness—
And passes the mountains of opiates, ganja,
And alcohol: passengers spinning too quickly
To notice the flatness beneath them. And sleeping
Inside of the base of the mountain, the dreamers
Are scarcely aware of the action of living
Outside of their dream—of the scurrying sightless.
Obsessive, who still can't imagine the tempo
Of God in the clouds or the silence in temples
Of stone—and the metrics they use all avoiding
The obvious standard for filling the empty
Ennui that is drawn to rewards made of pleasure.
“That question remains at the center of an investigation into the death of David Rozga, an Iowa teenager who last month committed suicide shortly after smoking K2. Mr. Rozga, 18, had graduated from high school one week earlier and was planning to attend college in the fall. According to the police report, Mr. Rozga smoked the substance with friends and then began “freaking out,” saying he was “going to hell.” He then returned to his parents’ house, grabbed a rifle from the family’s gunroom and shot himself in the head. ”
– Malcolm Gay, The New York Times, July 10, 2010
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/07/11/us/11k2.html?_r=1&hp
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