“Three of the four elements are shared by all creatures, but fire was a gift to humans alone. Smoking cigarettes is as intimate as we can become with fire without immediate excruciation. Every smoker is an embodiment of Prometheus, stealing fire from the gods and bringing it on back home. We smoke to capture the power of the sun, to pacify Hell, to identify with the primordial spark, to feed on them arrow of the volcano. It’s not the tobacco we’re after but the fire. When we smoke, we are performing a version of the fire dance, a ritual as ancient as lightning.”
― Tom Robbins
Without a photo these days what is a poem?
What matters. The poem itself.
Some memories that I am always reminded of around this time of the year and on Halloween in this new edition of The Half Dead Poet Review:
The Half-Dead Poet Review: The Story of Edgar and I, a Bromance
Too Many Cigarettes Can Cause A Revolution
If you swallow poison your heartbeat stands still, then stops to usher in our brother death. All welcome and warm.
It’s happened before for I am no stranger. I walk this weary world alone this mortal coil looking for whatever may be a truth, love oh God a love of God’s of flesh & blood & tribulation when there’s nothing else left. But I am no man of God but just a man of words and cigarettes, whiskey and poetry. Another madman who creates worlds with his pen. Sits in bars, places for hours waiting for the muse to guide me down my ancient path. My church is unknown to you and all you men of commerce you men of wealth and destruction and greed. I keep my one good eye upon you, watch you in all your darkness trying to hide your symphony of dalliances’ and crimes. Your sins against mankind. Your hands in the money pot your hands in wars and death and disease. You never see me but I’m there. Waiting. Waiting with words and my one true voice to take down you and yours your corrupt kingdoms your self made reputations and to judge you as you falsely judge me and mine. The poor and the working people. The starving masses and the rest of the world seeking sanctuary from far away lands. This is America. This is what humanity once meant and stood for. You’ve destroyed it. Used it. Used us and have filled up your pockets with lies and green. A green that the starving shall never see. You’re monsters and not people. Corporations and not our country tis of thee.
So I light up another cigarette and I make notes in my journal. And in my mind I send you on your way to hell with a smile and no regrets. You can ignore me but there are thousands like me. Me and mine. The people you despise, the people whose beliefs and lives don’t matter to you. But we’re waiting. We’re not leaving you are and we’re staying. No matter how many times you poison the well no matter how many stories that your cronies’ manufacture. We’re Americans. We’re the people who bust our asses everyday so garbage like you can live in castles. We are the slaves without a mention we are the tools with masters unseen. Too many cigarettes can make you see the truth. Too many voices can cause a revolution. A revolution of words. A revolution of the light we shed upon you.
So if you swallow poison your heartbeat stands still, then stops to usher in our brother death. All welcome and warm.
But we aren’t ready we won’t go we won’t leave.
Not until we’ve burned you down
See you in hell. Have a nice trip.