Poetry

What is poetry, but

a language of the dead.

It’s an informal dance,

a shared cigarette.

Poetry is

but a one night stand.

It’s a wine ring left,

sheets, stained

between strangers.

Ryan and Jessica, 2011

Kyle’s Camel

Kyle’s

Camel

cigarette

smoke

lingers in the air

creeping in my window

wishing me to dare

take another drag

see what you’ve been missing

though if I did decide

to have another kissing

I’d like to think

it would be mid winter

jangling down the streets

of New York City banter

admiring sleepy windows

with a stranger I barely know

after leaving the Wreck Room

now long since closed

and wondering if she feels

the same way I do

taking a long hot drag

while

trying to seem cool

knowing nothing about her

yet desperately wanting to

and they would taste like Brooklyn

they would be Pall Mall Menthol

crisp and clear and clean

like ice on the verge of thaw

we’d be cracking up.

A memory upon Mt. Whitney

Heavy
cologne
and
cigarette
smoke
are
gifts
from
the
city,
of
the
people,
seated
in
the
laundromat.

I remember it vividly.

Fresh
pine
sun
kissed
trail
the
gifts
from
the
forest,
of
the
land,
seated
upon
Mt.
Whitney.

I remember it vividly.

Sharing
a shot
with
Alex.