September Poem 16: Philip Morris

Hiking in the distance relaxed to the

Possibility of insight. He had

A young carpenter to eye his tears. Of

Biblical proportion, the red open

On the sermon he made. Of cowering

Partaking in the blood and saliva.

Any person light a butt of he who’s

Christian. Light a butt of any man with

Motives. Light a butt of Americans’

Fear behind assassination’s daughter.

Twisting fruit. The one shimmering in the

Winter. So you are just the dimly lit

Room yellowed. You would likely catch snaps of

Svengali. A figure. Quiet. Waking.

August Poem 43: Blowing Smoke

Take a deep breath. Deeper. Take their smoke in

Your lungs. Become them. Become carriers

Who could be rendered with sparks and smoke long

As scraggly brush blown off the burn pile.  Long

Of the yellowed cotton filters. Burned out.

And the butts everywhere. Burned out. Scattered

With these used up people. Dotted. Frayed by

Their time in the dryer. Hand around the

Black lake. Willing all find their way carried

Brains like piles of clean clothes. Thoughtless heaps.

They smell of diffuse cigarette smoke. Like

Mental peanut butter. In line for the

Illness. Blacks your fingertips with each touch.

With the paper gone. Dissolved. Washed away.

August Poem 36: Ragnarok

Catastrophes. Revealing stripes of the

Manufactured Gods. Hidden like slender

Cigarettes held to their lips. The old Gods

Growing in a field as leaves. Let their smoke

Linger in their veins. Wrapping. Smothering.

And hiding between religions. Hiding.

The snakes and spiders and rats and rocks and

Pits. They balance the feeble human mind.

But it doesn’t make sense to remember

Where Gods have not been poisoned. Where you saw

Them last. Stalking you. But you don’t want to

Chance their bite. The Gods had been exceptions.

Wrong. Tied. But that didn’t stop them. Or you’d

See them now in the grass. Decomposing.

July Poem 25: No, it Wasn’t the Charger, Dickenson

Confusion comes from the difficulty

In bananas. Danny Dickenson’s poems

Are the peels we had to get. I ate as

Many as my moms had flagrant toothpaste.

Framed by the use of a knife to cut them

The words like a cigarette. Cut the words

Into lean smoking story. Her poems make

Rehab came back out lit. The innocence.

They looked like a canned smoke rose. Her poems had

The lady in back with resurrection.

Had just blown the end off Danny. We sent

The money. Had always gambled wrongly.

Could use some innocence even loss of.