I love the way a cigarette burns
because it’s so red with rage,
all of the rage I cannot release
from the burning embers of my soul
end up visualizing themselves
on the burning butt of a cigarette,
a joint, a bowl,
the flick of a bic,
the stove top upon which my mama cooks her energy away,
a flaming, raging bonfire at camp, at college
rage which unites and separates.
The same fire resembles the blood spilled
for passion was a friend of rage
who got lost one day climbing up the Himalayas
It was too cold
lacking the heat and flame
so necessary of life
That is why I loved the after taste of a cigarette in my mouth,
the way it tasted like burns, like release
like a wildfire was just put out
like the friendship which offered to let me bum a cig
like if all it takes is one shared smoke to create peace,
more than just a gazebo gathering
or a fire-alarm-covered sneak.
What would you do for a smoke with Obama, or Gandhi, or MLK?
Would Al-Qaeda bend if you offered to light their marlboro?
Maybe there is an ounce of humanity hidden in the carcinogenic filters
addiction and obsession are human nature,
and I always thought
peace and love were too.
But maybe I’m just a wishful thinker sometimes
that there is still a possibility that this world could turn around
could it turn around?