the moon is a lighter… cool light on summer night
but enough heat to torch the tip of a cigarette
hanging off the lip and then
blowing smoke rings
spinning through the live oak branches.
the riff is everywhere and the flow is always.
the sound is so many radio stations sometimes
you can find one sometimes it is all static white noise.
sometimes you want to sit down inside the white noise and disappear,
(when I say you I am just talking to myself),
and sometimes you find a station with some notes that give birth
to the writhing of your spine in ecstasy and bliss and epiphany
that you know won’t last forever… but since it is timeless,
it does last forever… and you know for sure, that, at least,
you will never lose.
and the cigarette burns like a greedy locomotive always shooting
down the tracks heading west into nothingness and oblivion and
hopefully, the deep blue sea, where stars are born, disguised
as whales, leaping from the frothy deep, and