Camel Crush.
A blue pack or red.
Squeeze, click,
different taste same effect.
Smoky circles that drift and fade,
a yellow smile traced with shaky hands
and shallow breaths.
Too experienced to cough,
just hold it in and enjoy the burn.
Is there a synonym for cigarettes besides death?

IF you hold this poem up to the light.
it will interpret your dreams.
Just beneath the surface,
the dead use this poem to claim lives.
That is an orphan.
It says this psychic reading may cause it to bleed ink.
It detects irregular heartbeats
by the accidental, the psychological.
This usually means three things:
***, *****, gambling.
When certain people get special powers
dial 1-800-F-O-R-T-U-N-E for only 99 cents per minute.
The mystery is, this poem can crack all family secrets
if you put it under your pillow,
processes that seem to be outside
the physical and natural laws.

I remember I was the new kid again when I first met you.
I remember a flash or bright orange hair and tan freckles
as you stumbled over my bag.
I remember the exact shade of crimson our faces turned
as we rushed to take blame.

I remember the dusk blue smile in your eyes as you helped to gather
the scrambled contents of my backpack.
I remember avoiding you and the rest of humanity for the rest of the day.
I remember sitting alone on a cold bus seat and suddenly feeling
someone warm sliding in next to me.

I remember the smell of oranges crawling through the air as you introduced yourself
and apologized again for being a klutz.
I remember struggling with shyness for a moment before I could whisper a reply.
And I remember sitting awkwardly in the corner of our seat,
catching a little grin from you out of the corner of my eye after every bump
  that made our shoulders brush.

A blow
dish a blow
in its pace,
colors.
Marry the horizon.
Right a curve,
navigation.
So immense in a soul
see and pray- repeat.

A blow
dish a blow
In marriage
dont they love-
Roses,
tiny forms
of sable petals
flying through the wind.

A blow
dish a blow.
All aching
no longer
cones of Carnival.
Retracted,
cake crowns.
Those veils
they part solemnly.

A blow
dish a blow.
Paces,
they amble on
tracing the incalculable.
Love, the perfume
is lethal.
They lost and lost.

Can we go back to the times when we could escape?
When we would run across the neighbor's field to the tree,
OUR tree, overlooking the river.
I want to smell the gritty bank mingled with your citrus scent.
I want to hear your secrets again, the ones you'd slip into my mouth
when we kissed.
Do you remember when we held hands and watched the leaves speckle our
skin green and gold?
I want your ocean eyes to warm me more than the sun,
for the grass to bend underneath our weight as skin touches skin.
I want you to sneak home with me again, lock my bedroom door,
and crawl under my blankets to kiss me for real.
I want to run my fingers through your satiny burnt umber hair,
look into those sapphire eyes as my lips mold to fit your pale pink ones,
perfectly.
I think I just want to love you again.

Bathsalts,
Oh bathsalts.
How I love to smoke you
and get so high.
I swear sometimes I bump my head on the clouds.
Epson's your hard sharp crystals
sift through my fingers,
stick under my nails
when I scoop you out of your bag
and dump you in my pipe.
I love the sandy sound you make,
the gritty smell you give off when you burn.
I'll hold you in my lings like a lover
and cough you back out.
I'll embrace the munchies
and eat everything in sight.
You make everything taste better,
especially my neighbors.