~

It was a Saturday morning.
We got cigarettes around 10:00,
***** around 10:30 (they just wouldn't leave the liquor isle),
and drunk around 11.
We didn't stop drinking
and smoking
until we ran out.

High as the low lying clouds
that rained upon us,
we walked
the streets of the town we were born in.

They have a word for boys like us.
Probably a few,
but we don't need to get into that.
Time ******,
highs fade,
wallets empty
and we got drunk at 11 on a Saturday morning.
They have words for boys like us.
Bums,
hoodlums,
punks.
Whatever,

It was a Saturday morning and we had pie for breakfast.

Everybody wants to be better.
They want to be a better lover for their lover.
They want to be a better person for their loved ones.
They want to be a better teacher for their students,
and leader for their followers.

I want a few things,
for you to smile
and laugh
and not worry
and love yourself.

I want to be a better writer,
for the sake of my writing.
For those reading it,
but mainly for myself,
I want to write better.

For those around me I want
to be a better friend,
brother,
uncle,
only son,
but most of all,
I want to be a better stranger.
I want you to give me a smile when I give you one.

~~

*It's like that spider you see on your nightstand as you go to turn off the light.
Every itch and scratch, is always that spider, for the rest of the night.
So it is for every kiss I receive. For everyone I give back is just pretense.
It's the touch of your lips on mine while your presence is absent.

If only,
this numbness
would surround my whole
body. If only I could bathe in
benzocaine. Although, I would
much rather have no reason to do so.

two a.m,
in your kitchen,
lighting cigarettes on your stove.
i'm thankful for
your addiction
or your arms wouldn't be
holding me close.

time is as long as
this cigarette will allow -
the present,
the future,
is here & now.

with each flick
of my wrist,
my eyes do the same -
from your clothes
to your oceanic eyes
to your sunken in face.
you know
i want your taste -

but ashes linger
in my mouth
& your hand headed south
& i guess we were playing
different games.

i searched for the words
to fill your
unsaid thoughts
but you searched for
my body's beginning
to connect the dots.

I don't wish for you, it would not be fair.
I don't wish for us to fall in love, you might not want that.
I don't wish for my own happiness, that would be vain.

I wish that I could write beautiful poems for you.
I wish that you would cry after reading them.
I wish that you would keep them folded up in your back pocket.

I don't wish that you will be happy forever, where would that leave me.
I don't wish for all the money in the world, I could not buy talent.
I don't wish for a cure for cancer, there would still be death.

I wish that I could make you happy when it's raining.
I wish that money would cease to exist solving a pretty amount of problems.
I wish for a cure for life.

"It's Toasted"*

Something about that red circle calls to me.
Something about R.J. Reynolds appeals to me more than Phillip Morris
and Santa Fe Tobacco Company.

Maybe all it is is the classic red circle.
Or maybe it's the nostalgia.
Maybe it's knowing that 4 out of 5 of my dead ancestors smoked Lucky Strikes.

But oh boy, to get one burning and in my lungs is bliss.
Whether it's in the morning, accompanied  by a cup of coffee
or during school after sneaking out of class.

The smoke that fills my head clears the smoke that filled my brain.
And shadowed my eyesight.
And made me shake.

Any cigarette will do it
save for maybe those God awful Fortunas.

How about this weather we've been having.
And how about them Yankees.
But boy, oh boy, how about those Strikes.

i still listen to every song you
introduced me to and lately
i haven't been quite so sad
when i do.

The only thing left
in this mind of mine
is self destruction.

I know not how I strayed
so far from mother's teachings.
And I know not where I
shall end up.

I only know where I will find
my next fix at.
And I know how long
8 of these pills will last me.
(three days.)

I could place my finger
on this map
and tell you what country it is on.
Yet you could not point
at the crowd
and find one person who loves me.

Albert Camus
said that the only question that
truly matters
must be answered before
there can be discovery,
growth and love.
That question is whether or not to continue one's life.

Unlike the affects of vicodin and *****,
I know not the answer to this question.
And I suppose I will
find the answer,
or die trying.
Just as I did with the mixing
of my two favorite elixirs.
And what a lovely combination they have become.

Put out a cigarette.
Lite a new one.
Take a shower.
Drink some coffee.
Quick brush of the teeth.

This is how John Carpenter starts his day.

Start the truck.
Lite a cigarette.
Drive.
Drive.
Lite a new cigarette.
Drive.

This is how John Carpenter goes to work.

Check in with the boss.
Sit down at typewriter.
Lite a cigarette.
Think.
Type.
Type.
Lite a cigarette.
Type.
Type.
Lite a cigarette.
Type.
Type.
Type.
Think.
Stretch.
Lite a cigarette.
Type.

This is how John Carpenter spend the first hour at work.

Repeat seven times.

Check out with boss.
Start the truck.
Lite a cigarette.
Drive.
Drive.
Lite another cigarette.
Drive.

This is how John Carpenter drives home.

Take off his coat.
Lite a cigarette.
Feed the dog.
Cook a steak.
Drink a beer.
Eat the steak.
Drink another beer.
Lite a cigarette.
Watch the ballgame.
Lite another cigarette.
Lite four or five more throughout the game.
Quick brush of the teeth.
Lite a cigarette.
Read.
Read.
Read.
Lite another.
Read.
Read.
Drink some brandy.
Fall asleep.

This is how John Carpenter spends his evening.

Repeat all of this 7,304 times.

This is how John Carpenter spends his life.

And when he has smoked enough cigarettes for a lifetime
and read enough for a life time
and eaten enough steak
and drank enough brandy and beer
and written enough novels
for a lifetime
he will die.
And only Mary Stein will miss him.