A Smoke.

​I let out a sigh

Of smoke in retaliation.

This is not my thing.

It burns the back of my throat

As I blow out grey clouds 

Into the clear sky

And feel the stars shrink at my sin.

I smoke and my head is giddy.

I feel around

To find a way back.

I hope it is the right way,

But it’s not.

The King sized murderer,

Self-immolates slowly.

As Embers reduced to a circle of red

Release smoke of burned 

Paper and tobacco.

A friend tells me

To trust God,

With the look 

Of a proselytizing priest

On his phony face

I look at his God,

A cross between his fingers.

I think of my gods.

Thirty three million of them.

Including the stoner Shiva.

I don’t smoke the cigarette,

Pretending to be enlightened.

My fingers smell,

Of the first one

To remind me, I presume

That I am the sinner

And not the sinned.