There are times
to love
there are times to
see love
when it isn't
just something
beautiful.
When it's covered
in tears
hurt pain
and alone

The curtains
drape a window
in my
room.
To keep the
darkness
in.
I talk to mostly
no one.

Even if I love
wants to love.
I have ears
to listen.
But there is
no voice to hold
a conversation.
Even to understand
my voice.

There is music
playing to dance to.
But I never
learned
to follow the
lead of
others.

There's a cigar
waiting
for me to light.
This I can count on.
With so many
plastic tips
discarded
in the ash tray.
Some I toss in
the fireplace to burn
others I let sit with me.
So I'm not so alone.
With no ears
they listen
With no words they speak.
With smoke they dance
all around me.
As I quietly wait
for the cherry
of their
love for me
to burn out.

Here I am
another Saturday
I've woken up
with a smokers cough
heaving
at my lungs
like a slow roasting
fire
I've been
smoking
more cigars
lately

Usually seven
would last me
about a week.
Now that many can
only hold it down for
three days
maybe four

I drag myself out of bed
fumble around searching
for my glasses and of course
the phone
I manage to
slug myself to
the bathroom
pop an
Adderall
make my way
out to the porch
I light up a smoke
the cold wind
strikes my
exposed body parts
giving me the chills
**** Texas weather
it's either too hot
or too cold
kind of like me

Still

it doesn't stop
my routine of
having a few hits
my will power
is a slave
to the
rituals.

As I sit there
mean mugging
the cloudy but
still bright sky
I feel the Adderall
kick in
I'm ready to
tackle
the list of chores


With a toothbrush
and some foam cleaner
I scrub
at the bathroom sink
each little blob of
tooth paste spit
gets focused on
and scrutinized
just as I do
with my insecurities

Tossing a foaming
cleanser bomb
in the toilet
it volcanoes up to the brim
kinda like my emotions
have been
these past
few weeks

I scrub at that for a while
living with two boys
can cause **** to go
and get
in
to
everything

I hand wash all of
my black stockings
in the tub
rinse and
wring them out
and hang them
one by one
on the shower pole

There
as they drip
getting ready
to be worn
through the
work week
I sit on the
edge of the tub
and write this poem
despite all the ****

it was still a good Saturday morning

You relish the way I caress your flesh,
Kneading into your deep tissue,
Exfoliating with grit and ground remedies,
And brushing the cool, slick oils up and down your curves.

You share stories of saunas,
Describing how you enjoy the steamy sensation
As I lay you upon the rack, closing the hatch-
Infused with the aroma of oak and red cherry.

The enticing scent of your sweat fills the air
Creating a potpourri of aromas.
The sizzling of your songs tingle in my soul like a reverie,
captivating my senses.

Hours pass, and I, like a tempting man,
Brush your bronzed body to a tease,
Kissing with my nostrils to your sear marks.
As I feel your heat envelop my follicles, 
I’m consumed by a lustful desire.

Finally, I remove you from the iron-hot bed
And place you on the cleanest marble.
I stare at you, awestruck by your perfect brown and moist skin,
Dripping with juices succinctly.
You radiate such radiance, beauty, and temptation
That I can’t resist the urge to devour you.

“You’re smoking!” I exclaim, my hunger palpable.

There's nothing like
waking up at dawn.
The plants and the trees
are bare.
Each blade of grass
is either brown or green.
The quiet demands silence.
Even the cats
that follow
me outside
lower their heads
to show some respect
to the quiet.

I collapse, surrendering
to the rocking chair
My eyes still heavy
from only having a few hours of sleep.
The pills haven't worn off yet.

A half-smoked cigar is in my hand.
I take it to my lips
flick the Bic
and give it a long kiss.
Inhaling enough smoke
to fill my lungs.
Leaning back in the chair
I release a stream
of smoke.
Sitting there watching
nothing happen.
It feels good.

Until my mind starts up again.
Like a record on repeat.
The static
and flashes of
all the episodes
with every word
drowning my brain
with loads of cheap whiskey.
I question myself,
Will I be able to make it today?
Can I outrun
this hurricane
at least for
another day?

It's awkward being around so
much stillness and having a
tornado inside.
From a perspective of
someone people watching
I'd just look like a normal lady
sitting outside enjoying
their morning cigar.
They're partially right,

It was a **** good cigar.

I like to smoke
while it's raining outside.
Long cigars with plastic tips
on the end.
I hand pick them
each time I
get em.
Roll them between my fingers
fondling each one
to make sure they're
just
right.

They're perfect for
smoking
during the down pour.
Makes it feel
like I finished rolling
in the hay.

The combination of
smoke
and me
between the water
causes my gears to grind.
Searching the floor for
that lost puzzle piece.

I like that.

Nothing matches that feeling
of rain and smoke
and your mind going.
No, voices in my head
or prescriptions
no love or attention
from a man.
not the income
I make
or **** lingerie
I wear from time to time.

What can hold a candle
to this shower
is
writing.
nothing compares
to it.

keeps the clouds
full,
fat with
dehydrated
water.
Gives the lions
something to lick.
Makes the dirt
rich with mud.

Writing is better than
any therapist,
the best lover
parent
and friend.

That's why you're here
to read this.
That's why I write
hundreds of poems.
You already know too-
how writing is kind
bitter-
salty
or sweet.
I want to end
this one sour

My cigar is out
the cherry hit
a metal chair and
fell to the ground
my naked foot, exposed
burned.
The rain
snuffed out the rest
of the ember.
leaving a black mark.
Just thought you'd
like to know
*******.

A lighter in my hand
Cigarette in the other

My mouth hurts like knives
And my stomach eats at my insides

The tiny stick catches flame
And smoke rises with my pain

I inhale the relief and waste
And whatever else it contains

It’s a tiny minute fire
Like my dying desire

To die in a six foot deep ditch
With nothing but my pack of cigarettes

And a busted overused lighter
I hope it catches my body on fire

When dirt covers my rotting corpse
And flora starts to grow

Don’t put a gravestone over me
For I do not have a name to be known

By the world the life and sun
It can’t get me anymore it can’t make me want to run

I hope flowers grow over my body despite the fumes
Like the smoke and soot that I consume

i see flaws everywhere:

the skewed clock on the plastered wall;
the faces flashing past the curtain call;
the faithless creed of heathens, and sleazeballs;
the smiles that hide the symptoms of withdrawal;

i see laws bent out of shape:

the policemen advantaging off exposed women;
the two-faced lawyers in courts, who summon -
the men questioned of their dignity, and religion;
the reporters come drooling, for a big fat commission.  

i seek help, in vain:

the therapists diagnose me for a cerebral disorder;
they fail to put their words in the right order -
to put me at ease in the right frame of mind, so -
i accept my flaws under a contract, signed.

Scorched earth
Chars all who walk it
Of the burned
Blistered and broken
Hope is relishing in the heat
Knowing someone else is safe
As long as they're the only one on fire
Some recoil to the warmth
Can only cast the pain onto others
I am straw and twigs
If my immolation will bring you peace
Then I have one last request
Can I get a light?

my ol' hobby
smoking you in
harming my kin
takin the pill
going in all out for the ****

you're white and yellow
sore and mellow
you give out gray
you're my demise they say
make me gay

you make my lungs hurt
but smoking you in makes me feel like kurt
holding the guitar
smoking a cigarette