A Case For Smoking

i once met a man

on the street,

and prophesized,

when the worm

crawls over the cigarette butt

in a late august rain,

you’ll know divine poetry.

the man

just walked away.

did poetry find him?

what buttered life

did he melt back into?

today, it’s raining.

i’m not smoking.

it’s not even august.

i offer my spirit

to the worms and cigarette

butts of the world,

knowing full well

i want to be cremated,

urned and spread

all over contos beach,

where life began,

just so i can

tell the worms,

not today,

you many-hearted beasts!

and ask cigarette butts,

where did the lips go

that made you wet,

breathed you deep?

where did they go,

those lips?