#ashtray
She bush-pushed past jammers,
sent bodies spinning like bad coins.
Farm boys waved their caps from the stands,
hoping she’d choose them next
for mercy or violence.
In your dreams, limp-dick!
She would shout,
Molly Magdalene taught her first:
if you’re going to be bad,
live your gimmick.
Juliet listened.
She was Demolisha:
roller derby queen,
brick hips and hair like barbed wire,
lips black as tar,
eyes smoked in coal,
women’s names inked on her ribs and shoulder,
like wounds she chose to keep.
I was just her groupie’s part-time boyfriend,
I was the tool she kept under the seat:
her tire iron,
used in a crisis.
I rode shotgun in her vintage truck
toward Waco,
singing Sinatra off-key
to keep her awake,
scribbling bios for the program:
Queen of Quake! Derby darling of devastation!
Empress of impact, Siren of slam!
"keep at it", she said.
We got to her father’s house
to take the bureau.
Crossed the ashtray living room,
threaded through a cave of trash bags,
yellowed sheets, broken lamps,
into a back bedroom, a hoarder’s shrine
stacked high to nothing.
The heirloom sat buried in the dark,
hard oak, grain heavy as muscle,
the one honest thing in a sour room,
something Juliet respected.
Her father stayed sunk in his chair,
TV glow staining his face,
cigarettes ground into carpet,
nicotine walls dripping beer sweat.
He barely nodded,
muttered bitterness,
as if we weren’t even there.
I knew then-
he had made her a villain
long before Molly Magdalene
polished her into one.
In Baton Rouge, gas station past midnight,
a boy appeared,
a Baby Ruthless shirt stretched across his chest,
skinny arms, John Deere cap.
His mother, pink barbie sweatshirt,
a purse full of pens and candy bars,
watched him hold out
a crumpled receipt to sign.
Juliet bent low,
almost tender,
Then shouted:
In your dreams, limp-dick!
And the boy laughed,
laughed like he’d won a prize,
while his mother burned with fury,
damning her to hell.
**** you, ***** Juliet countered.
Back in the truck
she sipped coffee bitter as ash,
rings rattling on the wheel.
_This,_ she said,
is what lasts.
Not when you’re bad.
When you’re the dirt worst.
Behind us, a past that forged her,
the oak piece rode, ratchet strapped,
to whatever she swung at next.
Aug 24, 2025
Aug 24, 2025 at 8:55 PM UTC
Cigarette marks on the edge of the chair,
The thickness of smoke is gone.
Discussing how life sometimes isn't fair,
Four eyes and two souls make a bond.
Birds in the background are singing their songs,
Slowly but surely they fly.
They get darker and darker, a smoker's lungs,
"It's fine" as I tell myself lies.
Plans get bigger and dreams always shrink,
With time we all learn to let go.
Life speeds up, we have no time to think,
Only stop for a roll of tobacco.
The balcony's edge is this deep orange-red,
Soon the evening will dye the sky blue.
Our hands are now ashy, the sun has just set,
The cigarette's fragrance reminds me of you.
Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 11:36 AM UTC
the cat died
a few months ago
and now they use
his food dish
as an ash tray
rest in peace.
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 11:21 PM UTC
Forgotten Popsicle stick
Dominates in ashtray.
He broke it in half once
But it's been there a while.
He remembered.
Spending summer night.
Outside-
While his dad
Smoked in chains;
Wisps dusting
Humid air.
They just talked.
Cigarettes devoured,
Popsicles slurped
And bitten,
Even as sensitive
Teeth screamed,
Each left
Distinct tastes on the lips.
The ashtray began to crowd,
Butts piled high.
But he'd found a perch
For Popsicle stick
Stained blue.
But then his dad moved out.
And Popsicles
Soon turned to cigarettes,
That lone stick
Being one of the last.
Eventually he dumped the tray,
To get rid of his dad and
Make room for his own addiction.
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 10:30 AM UTC
133.
I've dated you for 133 days now. And you smoke a pack a day.
133 days of bliss, confusion
Blind love
Incredible love
Sure love.
I've kissed parted ashtray
Where those cigarettes have disappeared into.
An ashtray I visit
With my own wandering lips,
Time after time.
But I'm not sure
I'll ever keep up with the cigarettes.
Because you have smoked
2,660
Of them by now
And I know I haven't come even
Close to that
Number of kisses.
2,660,
A number that sinks
In my stomach,
The immensity giving it weight.
Because how many more days; packs, cigarettes
Do I have left with you
If you smoke so often?
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 9:18 PM UTC
Here lies my eighteenth birthday,
The days we've kissed, and said goodbye
And all the laughs and heart to hearts,
Our extinguished tears and fiery eyes,
And all our childish fantasies,
Dog breeds, houses, children's names,
And the blackened fragments of our lungs --
From which we laughed and gayly sung --
Now rest peacefully in the ashtray.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 7:41 PM UTC
I used to give you cigarettes as if they were flowers
I used to tell you that loving you was like plucking a flower
And you wanted to plant yourself as one in me
Not knowing that you were doing it as if
you were putting out a cigarette on my chest
Because, to tell the truth,
Loving you was like lighting up and not smoking .
I still pine for us.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 6:08 AM UTC