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 me

for passion was a friend of rage

who got lost one day climbing up the Himalayas

It was too cold

too cold-blooded

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 life

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?

could it. 

Liar, liar, pants on fire —
escapes.

Liar, liar, pants on fire —

escapes.

There are too many fires in this world
for it to ever go out.

There are too many fires in this world

for it to ever go out.