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.
how vomit is not the same like that.
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.
I’m consumed with wanting to consume,
Feeling so fast-food,
this racing craving to transform,
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.