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.
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.
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.
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.