Smokey Work

Updated: Apr 10, 2019

Smokey work

I used to write

in the midst of endless

cigarettes,

toppled pyramids of cans

while House of Cards played

in the background.

Focus shifts like my hand slips

off the gear stick

while I learned to drive.

I made amends with poems

past I wrote half-ass

while I eroded in a chair

of leather hide.


Time

is air.

Time

is where

you are when you

greet the weather beaten fool

that's you.

Time is skin who's gloss

can only shine without the sun.

Time is death and nothing more.

Death is nothing, and nothing less,

and death will last forevermore.


I smoked a half a pack,

2 back to back

and none of my thoughts

floated to the heaven gods.

I once received information

through a mailbox in my head.

A joke was played on me--

my thoughts, I thought, were magnetic,

which pulled your body close to me.

But I was wrong, in fact, pathetic,

so I chopped my honor from the tree.

I lend myself to you, right now,

because what's mine is only good enough to give out free.

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