i am not one to glamorize smoking,
but there is something recklessly beautiful about new york
and the way each cloud of smoke on every city street rolls
with a detached aggression
from cherry onwards —
like a demon knowingly conjured.

it is a slow suicide so defiant it is almost admirable.

almost.

but like most things called admirable at first glance
and detestable
at second,
there is an ugly side.

new york, though,
doesn’t know ugly — never has, never will —
and even when it does it is a
“between the lines” kind of ugly:
the spitting up of blood bright and red —
cherry —
at home, behind closed doors,
not cool and casual on the city streets.

new york doesn’t know ugly.
and so slow suicides become
park bench pastimes and
throats filled with smokes become synonymous with:
“living life to the fullest in the heart of new york city”
and the way each cloud of smoke on every city street rolls
with a detached aggression
from cherry onwards becomes
almost admirable.

almost.

(a.m.)