Thursday, June 09, 2005

clove cigarettes

So my sisters and I went out on the roof
To watch the rich, heavy smoke
Rise from our lips to the guilty night,
All the while meditating on our collective life
In these two clean, well-lighted rooms,
Surrounded by words and paper and song.

And I was singing the same old song
I wanted to tell you when we were out on the roof
By the beach, outside our little rooms,
Except it hadn't been written yet. So now we smoke
Our cigarettes, shortening our already-brief life
Spans, but that doesn't really matter this night,

So I'll sit beneath the blue-black haze of night
And play for the moon the melancholy song
That makes me remember when my life
Was still wrapped up in you; I'll sing it from the roof
Of my building so it can waft to you like incense smoke...
Or maybe we can be content to sit in our rooms

And try to forget when the broken down rooms
Of our young hearts fell into endless night
For months; they burned down into ashes, the smoke
Rising towards heaven like an angel's song,
But never quite getting past the roof...
We both took a different turn to get to life

As we now know it, to get to life
As I guess neither of us want it to be, in little beds in little rooms,
But tonight I'll sing our story from the roof
To the empty air, the empty streets, the empty night,
So I can burn the pieces of this manuscript to smoke,
So maybe for once I can sing a new song.

So my sisters and I, we're singing a new song,
Inside this autumn of content, inside of my new life,
Going out on the sundeck to breathe in the smoke
Of bad memories being burned, returning to our rooms
So we can read ideas and speak them in the night,
And let them fall back and collect in piles on the roof...

And in the night I'll think of you and let the smoke
Rise from my lips again to the roof and to the rooms
Where God dwells in His life, and sing you a new song.


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