Tag Archives: cigarettes

Quite a Bit of Confusion Concerning the Night Without You

21 Jul

In the gloaming we sit on the porch.
The ghosts of bottles reach out
capturing the last of the sun
as the ground eats it. The forest
grows dark. Twigs point like
twisted bone fingers scaring
the last of the eating birds
away.

I roll two cigarettes slowly. I
reach out towards the distant
sunset. I hand Buck one as he
looks up from his notebook-
which contains the notes of
salvation for tomorrow’s
sermon. Voices yell inside
the kitchen, or maybe it
is the TV- that blue glass
teat someone suckles on
inside.

He talks to me of water
monsters, destroyers,
white mountain veils and
light bearers as messengers
of God. I reach out and
light his cigarette, and
light mine- a peacable
burning like the sun
weighed and divided
ashes scattered in
Babylon.

I listen to the metal
laughter of my watch
holding it up to my
ear. I look through
the window spying
dead blackandwhite
people. I wonder what
secrets their shadows
hold on the otherside
of time and that
thick
glass.

Dark trees argue
against a colored
sky as bats swoop
down and down in
the gold pink
sky cloud mountains
I could climb, and
Buck punctuates his
talk of-
Zealots,
Samaritans,
a place of troops,
gifts to Jehovah,
anointed rivers,
and a man
of the dart-
with his own
clouds.

I take the ring of
my finger and
send the bottle’s
crown tumbling
down in grace down
with the remnants
of the burnt ones-
burnt faces whom
God will strengthen-
yeah that’s what
he says. And I
make notes in my
my mind of the
whispers of trees
A crow flies on
the horizon as
John the neighbor’s
dog barks- maybe
later he’ll come over
and drink the last
of the good beer.

Though if John comes
he’ll talk about working
on old engines, and his
time out at sea. I’ve
got something else on
my mind. I wish you
weren’t watching the
crows groom themselves
behind your eyes
recovering.

Buck is talking about
Mattathias Hasmoneas slaying
a fellow jew attempting
a pagan sacrifice at the
altar in Modein when I
see John strolling
over with stories of
bannana boat suicides behind
his eyes.

Buck is talking
about the birds of heaven as
they shake hands. And I
say farewell to this fine
hot evening, but I am on
the verge of a bright insight
spinning my last coins and
swallowing the last of my
beer.

*Written for Poetics over at dVerse Poets Pub.

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Three in the A.M.

20 Sep

It is just about that time of night
when you begin to lose your way
in the darkness and become like soft
mad dancing rain hitting the pavement,
just waiting for the dawn to burn you up.

It is just about that time of morning
when a cigarette burning in the night
is the only light between you and sanity.
As you fumble with the pack you think
of Christ, and then wish you had a match.

It is just about that time of night
when you wake up in a cold, cold
sweat and realize how truly alone
you sometimes usually are.
You stretch out like a cold metal
clanging against the sheets.

Yeah, it is three in the A.M.
and Goddamn
if it just never
quits!