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.