Note on Not Smoking


in Rants

3 of 2 in Kari

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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