I thought smoking these cigarettes
was supposed to kill me, but nothing
comes closer than puffs of your
(never-may-care) Sir Gallahad
traipsing vagaries in my sand,
my hand, the ampersand
of us.
Take a drag; see the haphazard
hag dragging tar balls
in the fall
to the ball
in lungs so splendored they spit
slivers of a hackneyed caviar
on silvers meant for I
dagging the eye.
Now exhale; watch the bated breath
impale air, hair, clothes, and
scare the preemptory strike
of walkersby
talkers by
which to witch the pluming
stick and you at its
command, and
another oath; believe it true
when you imbue
I with smoke
and choke the truth
from you….
quit never
forever.
© 2003 Jason C. Jones