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.