We all walk the edge of a fragile border dividing dimensions, but many of us also walk a fragile edge of inner consciousness. For the poet this can be an asset if controllable but still accessibIe. I know I can keep a poetic edge on my tongue’s knife when the drugs start running out, I just don’t know if I can keep an edge when the money rolls in. I probably don’t have to worry about that, though, do I? Drugs expand the mind and the ego beyond recognition. Some ego is good, even necessary, but too much removes you from the normal circles of creative flow, and you start looking for somewhere and someone on whom to lay the blame. Alcohol is safer and more sociable, if less, uh, ‘quantum’. Alcohol greases the wheels of creative derangement a step at the time, drug of choice, $1 a pop, straight to the vein to the heart. Nervous systems are there for warning of impending danger, not juking for maximum thrill. Drugs can short the system out, rather than smoothing it out or lifting it up. Often I’d say good-bye to everyone present before toking up, just in case I forgot in the heat of inspiration.