Smoke and Fears

In a past life I was a dragon

because I want to breathe smoke

and it was a lie to say I quit

doing it when every day,

I still daydream about breathing fire.

I had settled for cigarettes instead.

Even if I never smoke another cigarette in my life,

I will never lose the urge to see the wispy

tendrils of the contents of the insides of my lungs

curl about me with every exhalation,

then see if the smoke makes shapes like clouds.

Funny

how vomit is not the same like that.

Or blood.

I love the way each cigarette

involves a constant optimistic mastery of fire –

it can kill you immediately if you are not careful,

just like with some people.

You have to hold it right

or it can burn your house down.

Impulsively impulsive

I’m consumed with wanting to consume,

Feeling so fast-food,

this racing craving to transform,

burn,

exhale

tangible into vapors

into nothing much left at all

but a yellow residue on my walls and teeth

and maybe a tank of oxygen later,

I can kind of pull it behind me.

But everything dies sometime.

In the quietest secret part of my mind,

I wonder what is so wrong with me

to be constantly restless and

craving something that can hurt me

more than I crave

not craving it.

I get up and go to work tomorrow

And never speak of this broken-ness within

which is far easier to hide

than the hanging stink of stale cigarette smoke on my clothes from the car

as I drove every morning into the city.

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