Poetry For Our Time

Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason. -Novalis


with 2 comments

Tonight I really wanted a cigarette. I never really smoked, but he was a cigar man, and though he lived six states away, there we would be, talking on the phone late at night, both outside freezing in our respective distances, him puffing away at a cigar and I on a cigarette, each encircling the other in some strange, foreign, yet shared bond, exhaling through silences and small talk, a fire lit on the end of the signal line. Oh, but what mixed signals. I’d drape my arm over the river’s edge and watch my ashes fall, like coconut shavings on cake, disappearing into the dark as the waves lapped and lapped. I’d pace, as I assumed he would too. He would tell me about the night stars that I couldn’t see for the fog or the city lights or the smog or whatever else have you, and I’d describe the lights on the bridge beaming like bulbs in a dressing room on opening night on Broadway, or even a high school play for all that it mattered. He was innocent, a southern boy. I was a dream. It was a disaster from the start. But still we continued to puff and to talk, the smoke blanketing us and the conversation that stretched across distance and at times, reality, filling our lungs with a poison that killed us both ever so slowly.


Written by TheUndomestic

February 8, 2009 at 6:35 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

2 Responses

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  1. I like this new prose poetry stuff of yours. 🙂


    February 9, 2009 at 2:20 am

  2. i really like this a lot.

    “filling our lungs with a poison that killed us both ever so slowly”

    i’m not sure why, but i really like the way that’s worded.


    February 10, 2009 at 4:56 am

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