One more
cigarette
One less thought
captured by my notebook
I know
I have two inner-pockets in my peacoat
One with Silver Sherman's
and one with the little notebook of deeper joys that follow
Yet I've spent more time
Lighting Maduro paper
than sparking ideas
onto trees that are utilized for musings
rather than consumption
I inhale carbon monoxide,
(in line following the crowd -- by choice)
Rather than exhaling the same
for the leaf-lungs of trees
I stretch for something
A dichotomy of Pockets
Paper lined for thoughts
or
Tobacco twined for my subduing
One more, One less
One more circus of circumstance,
One less bridge to nowhere
One more apple to pick,
One less bone
I wonder,
"When the sands of time
should be sifted through my hands
and not my mind?"
But my mind continuously filters,
wondering which grains of now-repurposed stone
amounts to more or less
You fool!
Stop staring at the back of the clock
Discontinue your prescription to madness!
Watch instead the gears turning
not in anxious fear,
but in wondrous awe
Everything: a means to its own end;
not an end to its own means
And yet,
blackened by the smoke,
hardened by the repitition,
you take another drag
And all I can say
is that my throat screams for tea
and my mind
for resolution
One more thought,
One less execution.
--
I know
That if I was self-driven enough
I could compose a chart
(or a melody)
that shows the correlation
between the distance of you
from my thoughts
and the intimacy of nicotine
to my mouth