Why I’ve yet to give up smoking, is beyond the rank
of Reason’s breadth, yet voluminously spread within limit
of illuminable Rationale: that minor celebration of cello-
phane one tears away to juxtapose death with living hell;
the rightness of bone bullets with marrows exposed set pale
in their magazine; the fire one must provide or beg for
to prove ones worth; the air, the air, o god, the pulchritude
of the sky withheld and released and realized as genius
as it marbles in layers opaque and plumed; the ember
that heats the brow upon inhale and measures time itself
with volatile disintegration; the ash that flies and falls
with tenuous cohesion; the filter that stays as the only
momentarily lasting tomb; the light, the light, o light--
that I love the slow orgasmic nova metaphor’d as mind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

first lightning bug of the year
alone

at forty feet--
this is where i should say

it exists as representative
of the heart

of the mind but won't for the first viceroy
of yellow upon the board

of sense was seen yesterday
fluttering with so much

control upon the unopened buds
to then be taken

in a lease of inviolate wind