"newports" poems
I found a pack of Newports on the sidewalk
Before my doctor's visit Wednesday after work
I smoked two just to see whether I remembered
The taste of ash, mint and tobacco leaf
The stuff of life and death, the bitter and the sweet
Hurrying across the busy street
I looked up to see Mother Mary there
With dark eyes, olive skin, and wind-tossed hair
She seemed tired and a little sad
But her face was kind and she had God on the line
And ash on her brow, which reminded me of the day
I repented and gave the rest of the cigarettes away
Mar 6, 2019
Mar 6, 2019 at 8:08 PM UTC
this night was different;
there were more moments spent looking back then forward,
panic always pulsating in the crook of our throat
like some giant, out of breath beast
waiting in the hollow sweat, and gnarled tree branches
reflecting black against the slightly purple sky.
it was too quiet to mask our
echoing footsteps;
boot on pavement
no rain to soften the blow.
we made it in thirty minutes to the gas station,
where we unzipped our jackets
and let the lace show out of our drooping shirts
blinking like a warning sign
to the drugged up cashier,
words mumbling over his body,
strings mixed up.
men entered and i saw that look
that i always see
in men who look at me;
its hungry, a type of lusting mouth with no
feeling,
**** trusted more than his heart.
the kind of look that says,
“i want you feeling my biceps in the back of
my truck,
and i want to feel your tightness all over me,”
the only problem is i play along,
pretending to be seductive
and then leaving with an agonizingly frozen stare, and
a quickened pace
just to show them who's actually in control.
a pack of Newports exchanged over the counter,
another lighter;
this time with a green and red flower on it;
dahlias of the night.
exoskeletons of black jackets and tights
like some shadow riding vagabonds,
inside guts made out of
swallowed cigarette smoke
and bravery.
we smoked and walked,
watching as headlights flickered toward our slim frames,
and men leaned out from trucks
with salivating mouths like dogs,
inviting us to their burning desire
in the cold, shrinking night.
under the layer of skin
that tells the girl beside me that it would be stupid
to heed to their invitations,
i admit to myself
that all i want is for a stranger to wrap around me
and kiss my smoke stained lips
with a different fury,
so i can whisper a fake name in the depths of their ears,
and show them that i will kiss
better than all the women that have
wrapped themselves in
their limp bedsheets,
and leave them wanting more as i disappear into the night,
leaving nothing but a longing burn
on the tips of their tongues.
but i don't give into my fierce desires,
and we simply turn around,
smoke five more cigarettes,
and climb up the fence
to **** her hand,
and run across the raging freeway
like the Klamath itself.
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
it's strange how certain smells can trigger a very distinct memory. or how at one time, you enjoyed the smell of something, but now it reminds you of someone and it makes your stomach turn. was what sweet is now rotten. but then there are things that, to most, smell rotten, but no. not to me. cigarette smoke, for example, reminds me of my mom. living far apart from her, i miss the scent of camel blue 99s in my hair. oftentimes, i'm tempted to buy a pack just for the reminder, but she'd **** me faster than any cancer could. and anyway, i prefer newports.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 9:45 PM UTC
Paul Masson.
Hot sauce.
Colgate - old and stale
as puke.
Grease.
Newports.
Former head.
Recovery.
Country dirt.
Pecans.
Cotton.
A black fist held high.
Hope that one day
he'll be able to fit his ex-wives
into a nice,
cordial sentence.
Love.
Real love.
Man love.
Type love that kicks *** when it has to.
Sears cologne,
OG ****
Some Christianity,
but not a lot,
not nauseating
and obnoxious,
more like
quiet
and
almost not there.
More Masson.
More Newports.
Gold fillings;
the Midas Touch
on his tongue;
the ability
to blind you
in the glow of his breath.
Rotten *****
Real rotten.
Rotted to viral nostalgia
because it tastes
like ****
and makes him lick the roof
of his mouth
to get that smell
out,
just to make
room
for it
again.
Chitlins.
Obama's saliva.
Collard greens
with all the vinegar
and red pepper
in Satan's *******
Herman Cain's armpits.
Fear
for
me.
Love
for
me.
Power.
Former riverboat
porter.
The smell of rich white men
that talked about
*******
while he stood
stoically.
Strength
like
you've never
smelled before.
Human.
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 10:16 PM UTC
One of these days, I'll move out of this place.
The Greyness making saving throws at my shadow, but my resolve concrete, and my vision clear, each step away being a decision.
The television will dim, and the sun'll get hotter.
And my skin will be tanner.
And I'll smoke more of everything.
One day we'll be sitting in my backyard, laughing at ourselves, for ever thinking we were "far away from this."
We'll marvel at the greenness of the grass and the blueness of the sky and the anger of the heat and the deception of the trees.
We'll argue about whether thirty can be as big as five can be small.
We'll mix gin with our Newports and ash cigars into Dunkin Brand Styrofoam.
The memories will blur, but the lessons stand steadfast.
One day is often quite a few days away.
Quite a few rounds of poker, about a thousand movies, a couple billion YouTube clips, and at least three unfinished projects.
The slime gets thicker every day, and we're never given the assurance that our boots can take the inevitable torment.
But once in a while, I can think of the future.
I get stuck on tracing the outline you'll have two years from now, coloring it in with shades of pink and red paint, and writing your name over it in grease and alcohol.
Hoping to make the image as permanent as the ringing of someone perpetually calling out for you, reappropriating all the muted spaces in my head.
And hearing it shouted, again and again, and seeing it written in places unseen, can somehow make one day seem more like tomorrow.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 8:25 PM UTC
Black leather elf boots
Leggings
Cheetah print mini-skirt
Suede short coat
Too long in the sleeves
Someone's sweater with
A hole under the arm
One thumbprint sized bruise on my neck
Make-up frozen, clumped in the night air
Within my cone of oasis
From the halogen above
My breath mingles with the
Bile colored light
Smelling like Newports and tooth decay
I hug my self for warmth and
Shuffle foot to foot
Comforted only by the
Bulge in my boots
Representing the last few hours work
I clutch my purse tight
My toolbox
Not hammers or wrenches but
Tools of my trade
Baby wipes, sanitizer, tampons, and condoms
I hear a car slowing
Harsh redness of brake lights
Bloodies the vacant buildings
I lean toward the
Lowered window wondering
Will I continue to
Be the predator or
Fall tonight as prey
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 7:58 PM UTC
I was wondering if you forgot my voice
in between sleepy sips of coffee,
if maybe you found solace
in daydreams, or nightmares, about us.
I am wondering if maybe your lips
found home in the curve of anothers neck,
and maybe your voice carried,
a lullaby in another girls ears.
I was wondering if you'd still hold me
as the rest of the world held my throat,
although I told them it was only
your hands I wanted to feel.
I am wondering if you meant it
with the promises of smoking Newports
and building a home in the sheets
that should be wrapped around our legs.
I was wondering if you made little promises
to other girls with vacant eyes
and dangerous habits, so that maybe
you could save them, too.
I was wondering why you would
fall in love with my mind, when you could have
the smooth curves and beaming smiles
of beautiful girls with big wallets.
and babe, I am still wondering why
you hate to see me smoking
when you do just the same,
and if its deadly things that scare you,
you better stay away from me.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 11:21 PM UTC
I dropped my purse
while searching for a lighter.
Bandaids, two packs of Newports, tissues, and a mirror
cascaded to the ground.
In a sea of people,
nobody offered
help
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 12:21 AM UTC
5 am driving through the hood fearlessly
Because sitting in my passenger is a huge black man up to no good
Newports in my hair
Graffitti around these parts looks better
Than Wynwood
As the sun rises
Hitting all the homeless in the face
Sleeping on the sidewalks
I see a man stretching his arms,
As he unravels his cuccoon
Ready to fly through another day
Newport man points at a woman walking past,
Her grey baggy pants sloping
Her legs crisscrossing like shes cutting something up as she walks
But really she's just on crack
He told me that he knew her when she was fat
She looks towards a man down the road
And waves a flirty hand
He follows her home
Earlier in the night i see a skinny white girl
Walking around the club
I thought she was brave
For being down here alone
A couple of hours later i see her again
Waving an SUV down
They drove past and i saw her face crumple
The way gravel does
The car stops at a light
on the way towards her money
Newport man flags her down
She begs for a cigarette
But all she got was distraction
"Where are you from?"
Boston.
Her sweatshirt said so
I have a customer waiting for me,
I have to go
Newport man asks "what are you selling?"
She turns away and goes.
Another crackhead rolls up next to
The club parking
With a bike he stole from south beach
I know this because Newport man knows
Shirtless underneath a neon flimsy vest
That he stole from a valet stand
Smiling through gums at the drunk *****
Rolling past
Attempting to pretend
That he is the parking pass
Anything for some spare change
Anything for crack
And last but not least but not first is me
I just wanted some ****
Newport man said if i gave him a lap
Dance he would buy me some green
Instead the ***** gets skimped for a ten piece
When he paid twenty
And because my lap dance
Didnt have enough grinding
He didnt give it to me
And this is the general tone
Of Overtown.....
Addictions arent selective
by race, religion, creed.
All those people i met are just like me.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC
Thunderbird wine and a brown paperbag.
Hardpack of Newports nicotine fit shayesed .futhermucker.
Much obliged ...oh yes. Moma.said thered be days like this
Double ful twist piked in a spin dont even like the skin im in
Igpay atinlay...uckfay ouyay..iskay imay.asskay
Yea uthermayuckerfay
Days like this.
Futhermucker.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 3:33 AM UTC
I was wearing that dumb sweatshirt
you bought me last Februray,
it smells like the Newports you smoke
and feels brand new,
even though I stuffed in my closet for a year
I played your favorite song on repeat
pretending you're here
laughing, smiling,
and kissing me on my neck to make me groan
like you do
It felt like ice cubes coming from my eyes
and I couldn't stop shaking
and I couldn't stop crying
and I kept praying
(even though I don't believe in God)
that you would wake up
in that stupid hospital bed
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
sometimes i sit and text women messages free
of any ****** connotations.
other times i come across a chopped & *******
slowed + reverbed out version of a neoSoul song that i love.
she’s blonde and has a dumb thicc *** and
she’s a woman of few words and she was born
under a constellation of fire.
like i was.
her eyes are nearly unblinking
and they say less than her mouth
but i know
there is a sea
of symbol-sets
beneath those televised eyes.
how am i supposed to weave or write
when the joy is coming for my neck.
time is the measure of energy in motion
so i turn the dial wayyy down.
God is not a time-piece.
God is a flour mill -
shaped like an inside-out hourglass
in the background of XI Jinping’s latest video on
Tik Tok.
“Violent anarchists held a ‘Night of Rage’”
“Violent anarchists graffitied the Hatfield Courthouse.”
“Violent anarchists continue to attack law enforcement with lasers.”
gravity is hard on the feet and
hills are hard on the walking.
graveyards are a hard one for the memory
(if you believe your family is another pile of bones).
at least we have our three deaths to draw on and die.
1st when our last breath leaves us
2nd the last time someone speaks our name
3rd when Zuccman the Reptilian deletes our postumus, memorialized FB account.
where lies the heart of the enlightened without a mirror?
or when the three deaths are drawn and
it hangs suspended in purgatory like a
pack of Newports in the freezer?
or like a stylized hospital mask produced under
contentious labor practices and
shipped to America via air freight
passing over the Xinjiang province where crimes against humanity
are being committed on an industrial scale ----
The Uighurs NEED OUR HELP THEY SUFFERING A GENOCIDE
THEY ARE BEING ETHNICALLY CLEANSED!!
https://www.vox.com/2020/7/28/21333345/uighurs-china-internment-camps-forced-labor-xinjiang
Jul 31, 2020
Jul 31, 2020 at 7:14 PM UTC
Cigarette smoke lingering in the air
A full bottle of whiskey next to the bed
Uneasy feelings of my past life
Unsettling memories of you in my head
Reasons for infidelity never discussed
*** performed; alas, no love displayed
Late night intrusions by ****** intruders
Roles of husband and wife horribly played
Children we once planned on having
Simply a simple fornicated ideal
A shell of my former robust being
Attached to emotions unreal
Habitual rituals no longer practiced
Alcohol and drugs relinquish my lust
Notes of times past crumbled in the trash
Suddenly, the rush from your touch is a must
Hallucinations impair my rational thinking
My inner demons come to life
It’s only 8 p.m.
This is going to be a pretty long night…
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 7:27 PM UTC
Do you wanna be friends with me
do you wanna be friends
with a punk like me
My iron cross tattoo and a
middle school concept of
anarchy
we can
go to shows and smoke Newports
bring down the establishment with
empty cans of PBR and spraypaint
So you wanna be friends with me
So you wanna be friends
With a wretch like me
My dog eared copy of Slaughterhouse-5
And my irrational distaste for
Humanity
We can
Smoke *** in your backyard and
Scream about ****** babies
While burning bible pages
As if we were making a statement about the inherent theocracy plaguing
Our government
Do you wanna be friends with me
Do you wanna be ****** like me
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 7:28 PM UTC
There ain’t nothing like livin’ on love
Smoking Newports in the sunshine
Waiting for the time to pass
Under crystalline blue skies
People in the circle
The faces come and go
But we’re still all here together
We are originals fo’ sho’
He just ran out of squallies
But there’s no need to go and cry
‘Cause we’re the kind of friends
That help each other to get by
Ain’t nothing like livin’ on love
So I thank the stars above
Because I’m happy with lifestyle
And that hasn’t always been the case
There’s no one else in this whole world
Who can cure the lonely days
No one else could show me
All these new and peaceful ways
Of loving what’s around me
Accepting bad and great
Ain’t nothing like livin’ on love
When you were coming back
From your first date with Lucy
We saw those diamonds in the sky
So relieved you let her try
To change your views and cope with stress
‘Cause she was only wishing you the best
Ain’t nothing like livin’ on love
Good vibes come from all around
Never ceasing to astound
The fellow with the thickest walls
Even gets knocked down
But we all come and gravitate
Showin how easy one can change
My pride comes from teaching
Others these irie ways
Ain’t nothing like livin on love
The fall will come, and people leave
Our sweet humble abode
With unspoken words, we know
It’s time to walk our separate roads
But these bonds have tied us deep at heart
We’re always here in spirit
When college comes
And you’re scared to start
Remember how I’m here cheerin’
Ain’t nothing like livin’ on love
Jun 2, 2010
Jun 2, 2010 at 6:15 AM UTC
rite aid was out of maverick red 100s;
they only had shorts.
i had to buy a pack of newports
and the thought of shedding you
made me tremble as i slid my card.
yes, i switched from your menthols
back to my reds and yes, i kept your brand.
the other day i walked into my room
and the scent of cigarettes took me back,
back to the times of us sharing cigarette
after cigarette and i began to cry.
i called my therapist but she didn’t pick up.
the thought of quitting smoking crosses my mind
on at least a weekly basis, but i refuse to let you
ruin an agent of death i held in my hand
even before you came along.
i will not stop and i will continue to shed
the strongest tears for you.
Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 5:25 PM UTC
snow drift,
ride the busy street.
many windows,
and far too many wonders.
i put boots on,
ready to take off,
and in that instant
a knot in my heel.
is this a sign to slow
down? stay put
in my old town?
but the old town
brings back old
stories, truth,
and fables.
to start fresh,
I guess so.
so travel west-
as west as Chicago
gets.
to see my Katherine smile,
it's warms my soul,
it brings me back home-
even when I'm far
from home.
To hear the blunder
from outside,
it's great.
Things I'd miss most
are shooting stars
and constellations
near the moon.
But who am I kidding,
you can't see shooting
star in New Jersey anyway.
To throw the Newports in
the freezer, to replace them
with fudge-pops could be a
start.
Starting fresh could mean
starting over.
I cannot help but
hurt from wanting
what the heart
wants.
And who knows,
a year or two later
my heart could be
closer to the Sun and
the Moon-
floating in Space,
or dead on the floor.
I can not help but follow
what the heart wants
right now.
to sip tea and coffee,
not knowing what I really
prefer, not hearing from
my Mother, knowing that
she really does not
approve- how can
I not just want
anything more
than just some
personal space?
to sit on the couch
and read every book
or magazine that comes
my way?
how can I tell the people
that I love that I had
a breakdown? I lost
control of myself?
I screamed, I kicked,
I spit, I swore?
To throw it all away.
how many times
will I wash my mouth out
and learn to watch
what I say, when this
breath down my
neck has never
been more cold?
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 7:11 PM UTC
theyre writing songs about me
but i cant give them what they want
i know how to stay solo now
stop thinking about me
because everytime you do, i feel it
"how is it being god?"
please dont ask, dont make me answer
at the same time my pen dies
i lose 2 friends, a ride-or-die, and my mind
you could have kissed me over and over
but you screamed and turned away
and now your echoes are inside me
and i wonder why you couldnt be perfect
and why no one else was either
thats why theres just me
i cant be sad, only accepting
so please do the same
and lets meet up and smoke a cigarette
its on me, newport 100s
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 1:46 AM UTC
Newports
My body feigns for the nicotine,
that 30 seconds of ecstasy.
This psychological need,
the false hope that the stress I feel
would disappear in the smoke I release that's been trapped in my chest
pressing for a way out.
But when its over its over.
Too bad life isn't like a cig.
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 10:58 PM UTC
"whitman's for the white men" I laughed
marauding through the green squares
AL and I cursing the wind for
our bad lighters and
she laughed again too.
"don't you mean the whole Ivy League"
"yeah **** **** curse the Caucasian
Patriarchy dude"
she spit drool on the grass by
Dillon
"yeah man I don't know, I'm a bit
nervous you know."
she looked like a pummeled cartoon ghost and I wondered why
then behind me I heard a Hi and
I said to her "uh... Remember the American Spirits" (she ended up getting me newports)
I turned around and oh uh hey
back in his room explained to him what Imbroglio meant somewhat
hurriedly and then I knighted it the
Whitman imbroglio looking at the door map
This poem wasn't titled the way he suggested I should
But I think it's ok
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 10:58 AM UTC
I don't believe in perfection or something being perfectly flawed.
And I guess you could say that it means that I don't believe in happiness,
mostly the kind that comes from loving someone else.
And I guess I could tell you I don't believe in things I've never experienced.
But then I could tell you how I had left a half eaten English muffin covered in ketchup on my counter for weeks because reminded me of her,
the eccentricities that I didn't want to forget, that she wouldn't let me keep.
Or maybe how I didn't clean for weeks because the Newports strewn among the furniture also reminded me of the half dazed smile she would give me before we kissed.
And I don't believe love is quite right to describe what I felt.
I think it was much more, it was an instant connection.
She was so complicated and I'm nothing but simple.
And I feel like that might be a lie.
But I could tell you I was being honest and in time I was telling the truth.
I don't believe I was in love with her,
and I guess that means you could say that I don't believe in her,
mostly that she could have ever been mine.
Mostly, because she wasn't.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 6:46 PM UTC
Tonight
Is the first time I find myself feeling homesick
Feeling maybe I am not meant to be here
In this stretched out city that I have not yet learned to navigate
Feeling maybe these bright lights are too much to bare
Maybe it's the way the car I sat passenger in
Smelled of mommy's menthol
Maybe it's the way I have never missed the scent of newports until today
I am not one to turn back
After all i hated the cold
Hated the way the sky never seemed to come out from grey
And sun became such a commodity
That we'd sell ourselves just for the chance to see it
But a part of me misses rain
Misses the thunderstorms and lightning that would soothe me to sleep
Maybe I'm just weird in that way
Most wouldn't crave disaster like that
But I'm accustomed to ****** weather
I was raised on snow storms and below zero temperatures
Maybe this sunshine
And warm sand
Blue ocean
Is too good for my cold bred soul
I have always said that this is where i belonged
Where I am meant to be
What if we're not meant to be anywhere
That maybe we just are
Maybe we're just here because theres nowhere else to go
California
I have spent years writing love letters to you
Awaiting the day when we would be reunited indefinitely
I have always been one to romanticize
But maybe I built you up too high to be able to reach you
I hope we can be on the same level someday
I hope you can welcome me as much my heart welcomed you
Praised your beaches and mountains
Wanted nothing more than to learn every part of you
California
You have always been the center of my earth
Maybe always will be
I do not know you enough yet to say for sure
Have only tasted certain parts
Most of which were sweet
I am devoted to trying it all
I might never know
Where my place is
But California
It is an honor
To get to know you.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 4:54 AM UTC
between the crevices of my lips,
there is orange soda no longer carbonated, hibernating
until i wipe it off with my sleeve.
sometimes i like myself, when the caffeine dissipates
and my anxiety subsides.
are you loving yourself? are you taking care of yourself?
i didn't shave in the right places,
i didn't comb my hair this morning.
i've grown fond of my ***** roots or at
least that's what i've been told.
i touched myself this evening. i caressed every fold
and counted the lightning bolts to help me sleep.
masculinity is torturing. the bed springs attach to
my spine, embracing my face. there are no second chances
in heaven; in purgatory we have no one. cuts under my eyelid
tell me i'm ageing, but this is what happens
at the edge of history.
i can no longer pretend or hide. the newports grapple
my esophagus and i have been pinned.
why this and not that?
tomorrow is our spring awakening, and whether i'm up or down
or left or right - my sense of direction is permanently broken.
tonight.
i know one thing is certain. there is no love, no harmony.
i touch myself.
for a chance at true intimacy.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC