They call me chimney

it’s on account I’m always smoking

they ask me

don’t you worry about cancer

It’s not the cancer I worry about

but the lighting bolts and car crashes

grabbing me between

the apocalypse

rolling me into rapture

I find it stunningly brilliant

like the opposite of virgin snow

just another fatalistic head case

wallowing in the woods

of fictional nightmares

following the last twinkle of daylight

and hunkering under the moon

that we all sit under

I lost the last eight months

trying to rope it down

so I could ask it a few questions

I mostly would like to know

if it gets lonely

but I don’t imagine it does

having to share its misery

with so many mortals

so many messes to straighten out

The moon and eye have had many manage eh twa’s

with whiskey

capping our evening with the stamping of cigarettes

we are all franticly lost

in the fractal chaos

with no direction home

so you try and find some sense

bounce one off the other

but all your constantly left with

is now

this moment

that last in the present

and then it’s pretense

and we are past tense

I wish there was more