Smoking Cessation

2 03 2009

Must quit smoking, have been hacking up parts of my lungs, and it feels like cement. <—this was not the poem, here is the poem:

It’s a disease
that wakes me up choking,

cough coughing
globs of things
that I would look away from
if they lay on the street.

The knowledge
that I cannot run swift
like Demeter in the woods,

or hit the G
above middle C
that I used to sing
with clarity.

At night
I prod
suspiciously,
the sore spot
below my navel
and wonder
what cancer feels like.

But what is better,
what is sweeter
than a drag on a Marlboro
while you’re driving toward the city?
Bone white smoke
drifting like alchemy,
your eyes fixed on skyscrapers
while speeding through eternity.


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