Having a Coke with You
is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne
or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona
partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian
partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt
partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches
partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles

and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint
you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them

I look
at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick
which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together the first time
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism
just as at home I never think of the **** Descending a Staircase or
at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me
and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them
when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank
or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully
as the horse

it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience
which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I am telling you about it

by,
FRANK O'HARA

I'm not an option
Or a second choice
I'm in your life or not
I don't want to be a hidden voice
My friendship was a gift
Not a game
From then, you'll meet fake friends
But i warned you, what a shame
They'll replace you
The second you put a foot wrong
You should've of stayed with me
You should've held on.

no matter how much he means to you
do not ever take a boy to all
of your favourite places because
when you are walking around your
old city and go to your favourite park
all you will be able to see is him
kissing you under the big fig tree
or his arms wrapping around your waist
by the pond where the ducks feed
and it will no longer be your favourite park
and he will have ruined yet another thing
that was so special to you.

at night
the gray whispers
of smoke that
weave like ghosts
from the end of
your cigarette
reach my window
and freeze on
the glass like
a handprint
that presses gently
through
my dreams

you remind me of a cigarette
slender
long
a haunting spirit

a distinct scent
ashy at times
somethings youre nothing ****
two tones

i crave you in the morning
i require you after lunch
i need you in the evening
i long for you all day

smooth
full flavored
powerful yet delicate
you could burn me
but i could break you in half

when im jonesing
its for you
and you alone
i refuse to share you
i pack you tightly

youre mine
and youre smoking

Won't you hold my hand
We can play hopscotch
Across the cracking pavement
And write poetry
With the chalk
When we're done

You can kiss me
Under the flickering street light
If you think it's okay
And then dance slowly
To the music
The echo of the strings
Pulling up the moon
Makes

We can stop
When it gets too cold
And you can light another cigarette
Because I know you like the smell
Of smoke in my hair
And I love the way
The tip
Lights up
When you inhale
The pause
Between our words

There is a boy in the library, ignoring the crazy lady talking through the window.
I feel like telling him she is nice. And probably not half as crazy as the librarians in this town. She has 2 children. They live in Greece. And when she cries, her dogs hide under the deck.
But he probably doesn't speak English.
Hardly any of these people sitting on their backpacks at the library do. And even if he did, he wouldn't listen.
He is reading. Its a good book. I know its a good book. I've read it. Now I feeling like telling him to leave.
He should not read it here, underneath the colour wallpaper. He needs to find a corner of a beach, so he doesn't have to cry in public. And he has to cry, because if he doesn't, I know the crying will happen inside. And his eyes will turn a shade darker with the smoke of their deaths, and his muscles will strain to rip from his ridiculously alive tendons. His eyes are already black, and I do not think he can afford to find more darkness.
Not that I would know.
He might pick cherries for a living and flirt with a trailer park attendant called Fiona is his spare time.
But I have a smell for the scared and enclosed people here. I can see the kracken hunters and the faerie kissers. They show themselves to me accidentally and I turn watch them destroy their dreams.
People ask me why I am cold all the time. They do not understand, because the boy at the library closed the book before he could cry and I knew he would be destroyed anyway

I know people,
who apparently can judge the entire being of a person
on the fact that they smoke.

Making judgements
by the cigarette
that hangs from their mouth.

The image in their heads
says that this person is bad
but that's just the ignorance talking.

I know people,
who smoke
cigarettes and ****.

These people enjoy the feeling
like the taste
or it's to stop the shakes.

Some of these people
have huge hearts and open minds
greater than all the haters.

I know people,
who drink and party
because they think that's fun.

If that's what you like
then who am I to stop you
but that's not my cup of tea.

I prefer a nice tobacco pipe
and a great book
while I ponder life's questions.  

So ******* and your childish judgements
that cloud your mind
and prohibit you.

Open up and maybe someone
will be willing and able
to care about you again.

The sweet smell of raisins
fresh from the pack.
A lit cherry is a beating heart.
The wet end is as good
as kissed lips.
It makes my legs loose and
trembly like love.
Leaves me breathless and
achy.
Smoking scares you.
I smoke for inspiration,
the pains remind me I am alive,
and I'm not suppose to live forever.