Thursday, January 28, 2010

Like Dead Rabbits Burning on the End of a Cigarette

by Justin Wade Thompson

tobacco smoke rolls
around my fingers
as i type these lines

a man once told
me smoking is
a ritual
the real magic that people
mistreat, always

it's the art of
every man
to breathe fire &smoke
is Prometheus
a toast to Dionysus
these lines i write
are Apollo

no one believes
in these things anymore
like no one
believes in dreams
they just want to
interpret them
and lock them up
in a glass bottle
like little model ships to
show off to their friends

that's all we ask for
these days
something to do
something to look at
something to buy, to own

but it's these lines i write
you can't own them
you can't buy them up
they won't rest on a shelf
in your office, or in your
they won't live in captivity
they put you in captivity
they put you under the key
these words take you away
and do with you
as they please

they tie you, they bind you,
to whatever rolls around
your heart,
around the hearts of gods,
like a golden circle,
or some unspeakable wisdom
at the end of a thousand
ivory arches.

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