Being & Smoke

when, after this shipwreck, the individual turns to what is highest... SK

Something vicious and Victorian
Of this Georgia + Vanilla blend.
An old becoming
A young frozen past, mixed with
Mosquito spirals and homegrown salad.

As a student I smoked the dry blue Bugler box
once I found work among the elite, t’was Green Death Export.
Once Lucky, often Corporal
Their taste in winter, spring, and seaside differs
At Home or Cross-country
A perfume, a clear haze
I enjoy many.

Soren smoked Samson. He cites a “shipwreck,” what a Danish disaster(!)
I, Taurus and Italian, wrote “trainwreck” just hours before.
The difference can be huge but
not now.
An end is an end,
humming fusion
attacked by a swarm of bees
gutterly gasping at
what’s gone.
They made a nest in my jeep. One got me. I covered their escape with whatever was in the caulk gun.
I tied a tarp to shade the tar-hot vinyl seats. Your package was among ropes and clubs and swords
And a fuzzy watty speaker
At the passengers’ non-feet
Under
Sweaty rats and scorpions, wire
everything that’s honest and evil about August.


Chicken Fat, Vampires, Nefertiti and Furr
What better sugar to make the medicine go down!
Furry eggs & bacondrine!

Like Breakfast
staying still
Is still half being and half be
Coming.
Like Brewing Coffee.
Being is always brief.
Just the heat after a just complete work
Think after sex, think crack, it’s only that.
But
Becoming and Being can also, each, flow and feed
That is the precarious crux of wind angle, speed and intention
Or, more simply
There is no me when making.
Just through me, Being becomes being
An image and a sound happen
No time has passed
I haven’t moved.

Sand in an open hand.