I cast my line into the water. The bobber bounced a few times and then rested on the surface slightly cocked to the side. I pulled my hat down low, just far enough to block the sun and still see the water. Everything was quiet. Tigger was running around the other end of the pond, looking for raccoons I guess. He went to the water and took a drink, then he took off into the woods. He’ll be back. I love that dog. I must have had him for 10 years now.

              I lit up a cigarette, a Marb red. God, this is the life, man, just chillin, fishin. I had other things to do. I should be looking for a job I guess. I should probably be cleaning my apartment, or taking care of those overdraft fees, I forgot about those, ****. Oh well, this is my day. The birds had started to sing again. I whistled along, Andy Griffith’s theme song, God’s gift to whistlin fishermen. I could feel the sun on my bare arms. That’ll be good for my tan. I took another drag on my cigarette, the air was calm enough that I could blow smoke rings. So I did, for about an hour.

Then out of the corner of my eye I saw the tip of my pole dip down a little, it did it again, again, and again. Finally the bobber disappeared under the water. I grabbed my pole and started to reel ‘er in. It was a catfish, about five pounds I’d say. This was perfect, I would get Tigger and we could go home and fry this sucker up, and I would drink a few brews, watch the game and go to bed. What a wonderful day. I called for Tigger, but he didn’t come out of the woods. Probably found one of those *****. So I walked around the pond to where I saw him go in. No matter how many times I called for him he didn’t come back. I searched for two whole hours but I couldn’t find my dog. He was gone.

Those Ray Bans I begged you to get for me last summer. The ones that were always lopsided because I sat on them every time I threw myself into your passenger seat.

The nozzle we used to ***** onto the hose to fill up water balloons before we rode around in your car and hucked them at all those ******* bikers.

That glass pipe we bought at Amazing Adult Express. The one that changed colors every time we got high together.
...Not to mention the plastic pink **** you found in a bathroom at college and told me I could have.

My eyeliner pencil that never came off my face even with make up remover because I charred it with my lighter too many times.

The squished pack of Marb Menthols you plucked from my back pocket and wouldn't give back because  Smoking is for ***** girls.

My virginity.

And the ironic 'Thank You For Not Smoking" sign you stole for me from the Comfort Inn the night after prom.

That last glass of wine at your family dinner you drank for me because It would have been too much.

The purple lace bra and ******* I cooked you dinner in last Valentines day. The night I let you do me on the kitchen counter.

And that Needham Football shirt I love to sleep in. It used to be yours but I think we would both agree, it should be mine now

That **** world keeps trying to end itself. Everyone seems to think the solution to pollution is put more terrible **** on top to cover up the fact that things won't get better that way. No drug can fix me, No amount of ***** could be the cure, and no matter how many packs of Marb's I smoke, It won't get rid of the stress and the worry. All I want for anyone, is to keep them safe, I guess that's why I want to be a mother when I grow up. Guess you could say I want to be like Mother Nature, cause it's natural for me to protect, even if it hurts me in someway. But somehow I let people pollute me, I even end up doing that myself. I'm so sick of black lungs, sore throats, hangovers, come-downs, etc, etc, etc. Maybe that's why I think the world is trying to end itself, the fact that being clean, isn't always exceptable. Given I'm not sure I could get clean. Never was the type to be "lemony fresh" type, cause sometimes the pollution works, but only a temporary fix. So knowing that we think if we end, we will start all over, but none of us know if we really will. For some that dawn is too much of a risk, cause they think the grass won't be greener. Others try so hard to end. And we are torn.

I dont think I could ever quit cigarettes when you're around, cuz we always smoke one after. A mutual ritual. All the engery from making love calls for a light bit of menthal or marb. Or both! And when we kiss it sends shivers up my spine like the first cig of the day and the first kiss ever had.  When we make love we move as one like a wave. We are an ocean, we are a mid summers breeze just drifting along. And babe I know its cliche but when we make love all I want to say is "I love you"

" I was still there when you left me."

I'm getting flooded with memories of the night I drank a half gallon of Sangria. I stumbled around the apartment trying to find pieces of you.
I watched the stars in the chair you lived in on the deck. Burning my throat with your Marb Reds.

I honest to god wish I could get over you. But some piece of me is stuck. I take one step and you throw me five back.

I hate the fact that
you ruined so many things for me.
Every album you played
while I drove you home
(which made me late for work)
while you showered
(to avoid apologizing)
while I was slowly waking up
(much earlier than preferred)
make up the soundtrack
to every awful thing you made me do.

I hate that when the air outside
feels like fall disguised as spring,
it smells like you laying beside me
bottoming out after a night of Jameson
and me still awake from the previous morning,
dialing the numbers to emergency responders.

I hate that black coffee and marb reds
taste like your mouth
and take me right back
to that bathroom where I hid,
waiting for you to fall asleep,
because you wouldn't let me
sleep in my own ******* bed.

I hate that
I probably still love you
after all you put me through.

the sun will burn out
one day

it seems
this is a paradox
it is the sun
after all

light
warmth
life

the heat on your face in the summer
can eventually run out
of marb red cigarrettes

burning on a meal a day

sometimes i wonder
how can she do it

laughing down on you
like the smiling baby face
on pbs kids
incessantly

bringing inspiration
the reason
for
well

everything

to create
eat
just
just

hiding behind cloudy skies
which are metaphors
uplifting wet concrete bones
which are metaphors
in the stark of shivering sadness
not a metaphor

i am alaska
six months of darkness

sleep sun
eat sun
scream!!

When we met, we were happy.
Days passed in blue skies and Marb Lights,
And hollow nights filled with conversation
That could easily fill novels
Both fantasy, and reality.
I can't think of a moment when your fingers weren't interlocked with mine,
A contract of our closeness
More binding than black print.
You were in love with me once,
With every part down to my skeleton,
With my spine that shivered even though your eyes were forever warm
And the dark spaces that my father left in the caverns of my heart
Where your words sparked passionate fires.

Then something shifted.
And I watched with trembling hands
As your eyes turned grey and cold in an echo of the sky.
All at once the gaps started forming,
The unwelcome emptiness creeping into our love
Where cracks turned to chasms
And split first our conversations, then our hands.
You looked at me differently.
I noticed but never spoke,
Not even when I smelled her perfume hanging on your clothes
And I realized that everything you said
Was slowly choking my heart in ash.

Now you’re smoking Parliaments
They’re her brand and they seem to hang softer from your lips,
As you talk with a fluent sort of excitement
Never tainted by the silence
That haunted us like ghosts in the night.
We haven’t held hands in a while
But I still remember how they felt,
Almost as steady and warm as the pen I now grip for security
While you’re out somewhere gripping her.
And I’m happy for you,
Almost unbelieveably so
But I still find myself longing for the warm glow
You used to cast inside of me,
And wonder if you’ll ever come back
To stoke the fire.