Tag: poem

Strawberry Pines by Somatic

~ johnbrandall ~ Leave a comment

3.28.2026, 16:05

This Strawberry Pines hits pretty hard, pretty quick. It's a bit of a spitter but not untasty. Something of a stupor, a stuporous feeling, a drowse, marsh-mallow-y. I'm listening to baseball, have been for four or five hours. It's the fourth day of the season. This is Mets-Pirates, tied at one. There had been zero extra-inning games so far, then: Rays/Cards, A's/Jays, and now Mets/Pirates.

"New York is challenging the out all at home plate," says the umpire, his voice fed over the stadium's loud speaker.

I'm not sure if writing is helping or hurting. Two straight outs at the plate. That was a squabbler, a fielder's choice. Soto to first, Young out at home. Force play. Nowhere else to go. No tag necessary, just step on the plate before the runner arrives. Fly out to right. To the eleventh!

Most of the gram of Strawberry Pines I bought in Clovis, NM en route Tucson by way of Ruidoso, NM. I smoked a bowl of Strawberry Pines while in the pines of Ruidoso.

I'm baked. Staring off into the distance (the wall). Now the Red Sox and Reds go to extra innings!

We are in Tucson, Arizona. I bought this Strawberry Pines in Clovis, New Mexico. The grower is Somatic. The dispensary was an R Greenleaf. They have a lot of flower by the gram. Yesterday I had a different strawberry strain—Strawberry Pancakes—from High Noon Cult. Then I had a Mezcal Melonade, also from High Noon Cultivation. I can't say anything specific about either of those strains but I went to bed content; had my first vodka of the day as a nightcap, on the bed stand. That's been a good place for it.

The Mezcal Melonade is an indica. I smoked it right before going to sleep. I suppose I slept pretty well for a few hours. Then my sister-in-law arrived. I was up for a few minutes. It was not unexpected. Yet, awakening, there was a sense of confusion, surprise—what's this now? what's that light? Is someone here? Then back to sleep, a legitimate sleep, until 3 or so—what was five my time (or what had been my time in Missouri for the last two weeks, until DST kicked back in). Multiple time changes, changing time (poem below)...


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Florida Jack by Grow Sciences

~ johnbrandall ~ 1 Comment

There’s some carry on that Florida Jack. Early on, it was a weeper. Let it flow. I welcome and appreciate any time cannabis makes me emotional. It’s part of the process. It’s part of the high. You have to be ready for it, especially if there are things on your mind worth crying about, worth getting out. Weed can be a very direct, effective, expeditious form of therapy.

I was emotional, but in a happy, satisfied, head-on kind of way. After that, I thought the effect of smoking Florida Jack was fading.

Then the effects unfurled their second act. This is an example of why I need to give each joint enough time to do it’s thing. And why I shouldn’t drink so damned much, ever—but especially when I’m trying to size up a new strain.

I suddenly found myself with nowhere I had to be. No company coming over. Nothing on the to-do list. Time was passing but I had a notebook and a pen and I was sitting on the edge of a hand-me-down twin bed in the back bedroom of this house my in-laws bought ten years ago in the desert. I was writing lyrics to a song no one was ever going to hear, not until now.

Eventually the Florida Jack yields a latent buzz, a pleasant buzz.

Talent neat nettle.

Mettle a molten lantern, this rental’s eternal...


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