“the black smoke chronicles” (series)


welcome to wherever we are

black smoke screened mind;
that’s where feeling comes
from. tripped up, faked out,
thrashed down, whatever
you want. it makes
everything else so much
easier like forgetting about
being forgotten about &
raging floods while camping
in Key West or walking
I-77 instead of seeing
the Boss play in North Carolina.

it’s working black magic
smoke like a damn maestro,
pushing all kinds of shit
aside in a vain hope that
forgetting about everything
is the solution & not the
problem. frenzied misunderstanding,
rolled around & studied
from every angle until
parsed passed meaning. amazing
what the right mix will do
to the wrong night. my
mood is improving as we
sit here talking…




i ain’t hidin’ from shit.
(is it even time yet?)
anyone else hear old-
toned salacious laughter
while rotten fuckers
(we can smell our own)
swear & froth something
’bout post-rapture
jokesters avoidin’ judgment?

love-throated voices
imitate greek chorus
warnings; polluted temple-
bodies & nicotine futures
& self-abuse. not like it
matters. paid-in-full
dispensation in my hip-
pocket are gutter rescued
letters of transit. i can
go anywhere i want,
or nowhere.

a group of solitary fools
kindly tip me off;
lok-tite bonding holds
steady a multivariate
universe filled with clowns.
they are us.
we laugh TOGETHER,
departing the closest
of friends.

variability paved pharma-
psychological cosmipolitan
highways go in every direction.
walkin’ a while is my
best shot provin’ my
shit-eatin’ grin just a
reflection on reactions.
maybe not.

looking familiar here.
it stones me dumb
in realization.
i’m already home
& i didn’t know.



gimme light

black coffee sits with
a burning cigarette, both
desperate for attention,
silently competing over
who’ll be drank or smoked

my tiny space expands &
contracts as i play with
my heartbeat; watching
ice melt in an abandoned
cup next to my computer.
takes more than you’d
think to push words
around & i can’t tell
if the ice is watching
me try to write
or i’m watching it

it says right on the
packaging y’ain’t
s’poseda do this. well?
let’s do this. now.
only thing more fun than
not following instructions
is coloring outside the
lines (go ahead &
trust me on this subject,
if nothing else.) coffee’s
pretty good. serious.



okay eddie.

stalled out this close to
the end, duckin’ too much
thinkin’. honesty can
be a real motherfucker
when it doesn’t go your way.
curled up, knowin’
that fighting two
battles ain’t much
an idea; how ’bout
one? in this smoke?

not that it matters.
everything you want is
gonna come true, but
moving with you like that
almost makes me wanna
want to do it again.
seems dangerous.

if this is acceptance
(maybe i’m reaching?)
no need for anymore
tosses against those sharp
rocks waiting on time & tide
to smooth rough edges. their
patience is infinite where
mine is jest; wannabe
laughter from a
strangled throat.
i can’t speak as you
flee like a ghost
in the breeze.



jokers & fools

paradise alley tours
far & wide &
scatters good intentions
into every disaster;
never knowing enough
about how it came to be,
it had to become enough.

let loose a little at a
time & sharpen those
claws. you’ll never draw
blood or get under the
layers of exhaustion.
insomniatic pacing over
wood floors establishes
harmony without

stretched taut
between stars;
whatever rationale i started
with long since discarded.
darkness delights to cover
conversation between
personified evening hours
talkin’ nonsense to
the disenchanted.

only danger is failing to
convince myself sleep-sick
hallucinations are real.
trails follow movement;
living center-stage is
costing me more than
i can afford to pay.

or later it’ll run me down;
runs everyone down.
just what happens
or later.



come with me

seems too easy bein’ overly sober;
with endings already revealed
before anyone can say anything
about a long fuckin’ time ago or
far far fuckin’ away. i’ve spent
enough time guarding darkness
during peripatetic solitude. self-
seduction never seemed so right.

no matter, can’t sleep here anyway.
all night, every night, i’m movin’ even
while motionless & staring into space.
wet-bagged eyes stay comfortable
behind sunglasses. polished correctly,
attention deflects toward inside jokes.
exhaustion without time to sleep, where
insomnia is news & bloody noses are
transmitted via blowjob.

lucky enough to find a bag of flames
held in reserve for midnight moments.
black smoke rescued & i’m born all over.
i’m feeling better with that razor edged
determinism dulled by vapid righteous
indignation. maybe it’ll even getcha off.
black smoke hides sobriety induced
visions of storytale endings. mystery
again rules supreme; can’t leach all
the fight out of this kid; not when it’s
still fun to bleed on occasion.

One Response to ““the black smoke chronicles” (series)”

  1. “amazing
    what the right mix will do
    to the wrong night”
    hmmmmm…yep, yeah….agreed!
    cool1 🙂

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