i leaned to smoke
from film noir
the gritty grey frames
i first saw in cloudy rooms
completely antithetical to the vibrant blockbusters
from my childhood

if i can afford it
i still buy a non-filtered soft-pack
and puff them
three puffs just before
anything is inhaled
mostly for effect
drama

but when i cant
i just think of bogart
tear the filter off
and proceed

but it was never
so much about the act
drawing in a cloud
of overly-processed plant matter
but about the etiquette

if you have ever burned down
something without cotton
you know it is certainly a messy ordeal
but what hepburn and tracy taught
what grant and cagney spoke
with their actions of course
is that there is a reason to this madness

i practice
and i try to teach
that this is an elegant process

while taking in a deep breath
of something
you arent encouraged to love
without any health benefits
simply out of a base habit
some of that **** is going to get in your mouth

it may taste bitter too,
depending on how your buds are aligned,
but grow up
you cant keep just spitting where
other people will soon walk

they never did that
my heroes
instead
they stuck out
the tip of their tongue
pursed their lips
as the face made by
a baby on a commuter rail
staring at you
and you echo back
with a tiny poke
of your front 10000 buds
mostly for spectacle

and when that teensy bit emerges
within or without the train
you have to gently pick
with the forefinger and the thumb
the infinitesimal bits
resting at the tip
pluck them away
rub those two finger together
and pretend
that youre only smoking

and
if you arent looking closely enough
ill tell you
things are turning back into grey
and you turn RIGHT back into
the misogynist you hated
but emulated

youre still smoking though
handing out smokes in fact

holding up "the walls of jericho"
laughing at those
who dont know how
to fold a sheet

oh. but i pledge to quit
and you to change
and us to bond
and my smokes to wain

this isnt about the filter-less
that i had at 3am
its about what i commit
and what you
can respond with
how this can work
and the etiquette necessary

let me
let me
pick the fleck from the tip
of the teasing tongue
just for you
and you tell me
when i have something
in the place that
used to be my mustache

i curse myself
for the anxiety
i feel for those near
chomping
crystalline version of that
which makes us up
the cold that kills
or at least affirms death

for the stress
felt for the tears
shed
in times when i am away
or at least when
were apart
pulled in all directions
disoriented

for the swears
i murmur chilled
leaning
from the window
and the cold May breeze
blows back in
last weeks last smoke
two years ****** growth
can no more capture
the shameful smell

for the death
that arrives on my door
sandwiched
between what i need to leave
and what can open doors
door stop wedged firmly
needs to be withdrawn
call it what it is
ego

the curse
that lies between
choice observation and opportunity
im teaching myself
to ignore and adopt
curl up next to
failure finality
and future
without regret

regret?
to spit in its face
arms akimbo
nose neptunes way
grinning
and i pray
holding your hand

i cant write when im angry
it makes the meat melt
and the gristle grow
into something that i need
to spit out

these are always the shortest
because the causal cooings
shift ****
to a place where i understand

but that doesnt mean
i have to like it
nothing of the sort
nothing is more disgusting
nothing rings more true
than fury

i cant read
so i just write
i quickly become tired
with your work
i would much rather pace
wear down the blades of grass
in the familiar place

i cant read
because while the graces of poets
philosophers
and scholars
make pretty the page
syllables dancing
atop meticulously pressed parchment
while this happens
through their beauty
i only think of you

toss the tome aside
and imagine all the ways
i can express
the things that capture and drag
the fingertips to their home
back to the place where i feel full
loved and laughed at
where i carouse and cherish

this was never about the "reads"
never about the ratio
of lit to likes
it was only ever about me writing
you love letters every day
ten max though

fact is, half of these *******
scrawlings these
are returned to sender
but crying alone
is far better than pretending
pretending you were never upset
and begging for something you need
begging doesnt only work if there is a listener

i cant read
i cant read our future
i cant give you house keys
a front or back yard
a cat box
a leash

i cant read
i write.
all 106 of them
garbage some think
but its garbage
i sealed with tears
and stamped with a kiss
spritzed with cologne
(if i wore it)

i cant read
star charts
memos
concert bills
calendars
no parking signs
or the expressions of cats

but i can write
pour out every guttural spasm
scribble every inspiration
leer and laugh toward
a glowing screen
mute and accepting
of the drivel banged out below it

i cant read
i can write things though
some things
good things
things

see what i mean??
i cant even write.
"things
good
things"
hay-seuss x-mas!

lets stare upward
facing the new constellations
i splattered on the ceiling
glowing specks to fascinate us
while we are here
dark early and silent

playing footsies
i caress you
big toe to pinky
slow and sighing all the while
the deep
im so in love with you sigh

i meditate
and you meander
your fingers across you
and then me
raising every pore and follicle

its night but we arent dreaming
and no
not even really playing
just being mostly
nocturnal

i swear to god
swear it wasnt me
i was here the whole time
holding your hands
im innocent

well
now that you mention it
i might have something to tell you
**** more things than SOMEthing
i lied

ill try not to take that tone
should i whisper it
i mean i kind of need to
after all that yelling

forget i said anything
lets just act like adults about this
heres all the terrible things
puke on the page

you know,
if you ate better
you might not get so sick in the *future

not till the blinds shone brilliant light stripes
on the filth smudged walls
did i consider sleep an option

put down the bottle
its too bright for whiskey
here, i cant hit this again

ill just lay here and wrestle the covers
thinking but not dreaming
of nothing other than you

if you were here im sure
you could talk me down
sssssssshhhhh me till im gone