to be alive is to be dying
is to be afraid is to be
in love is to be alone
smoking a cigarette
on Burnside and 30th
at 5:40 a.m.
knowing
the world
is
the most beautiful lie.
knowing
tomorrow
is
Death stretching Her hand
just above my eyes,
smoke flowers
in the sunrise
like a dream
of something new:
colors
our eyes cannot see.
borderless, unbounded
love.
speaking poetry
to a stranger
as you pass her
on the street.
see, lately
I'd given up on everything.
the sweetest taste
was a forgotten dream.
I sung winter
winds
down summer streets.
the dark soil
invited my deepest sleep.
I'd watched the decay
of flies,
of people,
fluttering
and dancing
(and if the stink
of shit
was close,
it was always
money).
I saw my empty
hands.
I leaned
to kiss
the flying throat
of Death,
leaned and begged
for Her breath,
Her smoke
blooming, writhing,
billowing
from a fire
in the roots
of the earth
and all I found
was a seed
I buried
in a sky
I suffer
to know.
here on Burnside and 30th,
at 5:40 a.m.
there are no crows
crying black cries
from the power lines.
the streets are quiet.
at this very
moment
all the pain
of living
is
smoke
rising
with
the
sun.
there is no one
in sight,
no rain,
no flies or bees
or wind,
just me
smoking my cigarette
alive,
alone, afraid,
in love with all of it.