Smoke in a stagnant room swirls
Like Van Gogh’s starry night
White ink on dusty canvas. The motes dance
Like the lilt in his voice when he asked
“Why do you smoke?”
I musingly replied, full of idealistic romance
Rapt in the nicotine tendrils that curled
Comforted by the big jazz bands of Hemingway
On the road with Keruoac
Howling my way through Ginsberg,
At 21, sure that the world belonged to me.
Reassurances buoyed by bottle service
And too kindred friends. Nobody tells you that
Quiet rooms make for perfect introspection,
Not when you’re chasing highs.
Addiction by any other name is
After all, a mere pathological need
To imbibe. Push a circle through a square,
The key will still fit, even if the pieces push through
Turning nothing. Mirrors and smoke in gilded cages.
I exhaled and watched the breath disturb
Leftover particles of hurt, contemplating
Needle pricks upon memory skin
Ink spreading, rorschach truths.
How much of what we remember is real?
i hate septembers. when the winds start to chill, the in-between almost short days are acute with longing. give me august with its burning heat, languid days spent drinking iced teas and beers. verandas with their never-cool-enough breeze and friends who don’t feel the need to make conversation. give me october, with her flirty aloofness, cool enough to hide behind masks, and prance about, proudly flaunting disguises. costume jewelry to match costume smirks. give me october with thanksgiving and halloween, and wake me up when september ends.