Note on Not Smoking

I don’t smoke anymore and the corridors are filled with rust and glue, are hampered with Macy’s perfumes and a rush of geometrical anklets in expensive antique plastic. I don’t smoke and I want chicken wings. I don’t. I don’t have a face or any hair. I don’t smoke on my own in the dark. How much I don’t or lift my hands like that. God knows and ignores me and sends me to Spanish Mass. Oh God, I don’t like it. I work out not smoking each morning and itch after shaving– I think, because I quit like this. I need to smoke and yet I refuse. I refuse everything that is shining and lost. O woods of my youth/ my smoking and me / our death together on the cool blue carpet. It is night and there’s plenty of work waiting up—a windy gymnasium of things to do. My apartment lumbers around me in old wood and pink chairs. It is desperate. The shower is orange, it is like a title for something really good. I don’t even give up what I hate. It is all shelved or folded or underneath something shelved or folded. Hamstring of me at night. Tube of sleep. The people I love are all night touching my face and my back. A will in the paper flowers, the first sound, in the pushed out light, the gold no of going.

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