July 7th

Fueling the fire by burning out cigarettes into the ground letting the air smoke them. Just light and watch the wind whirl around to keep the edge cherried. Walking down the silent cozy neighborhood, there is no need to be afraid when looking around at these well-lit houses in between drunk drivers of saturday headed back to their quiet street after a loud night. (you seem like someone who would love Andrew Bird). Letting contemplating of the sobbing stars take over legitimate excuses. Nearly cry watching satellites circle the stars and the helicopter follows the highway back and forth to capture accidents on vintage audio. That actual fuel necessary to keep production rolling. Alcohol and nicotine. Rat poison and guillotine. We cut off each others heads to find out what is contained in our own. Bitter remorse at the lack of familial connection, therefore connecting with deeper rooted cousins. Smoking joints and complaining about headaches and other influential elements that cause a new-goner to forgo normalcy. But we all forget where we came from in order to understand where we are because no anchors hold this vessel down, the water is too deep and the anchors suddenly become so much lighter with the more tropical waters. Still cold yet warm enough to keep tides moving and bottomless. The anchors, the multitude and strings attached to heavy items, pulling from deep below the surface. But they no longer catch on the ocean floor. There is no floor. There is no bottom level. Despite all of the typical shame I predicted I do not regret the execution of my idea. I knew the adventure would hold old contemplation. I would watch the stars and inhale deep on that foreign feeling of weightlessness. I am no longer an anchor. I am no longer anchored. We left our moorage and never paid mortgage on that watery grave. Deep below the pier where we lit off fireworks in the middle of the fall. To the amusement of the coastguard dodging roman candles from hooded vigilantes on the shore. We ran in ritualistic circles around blazing fires, with marshmallows blackened on the end of sharpened sticks, widdled down with care from local branches... the chocolate melts when encountering the black-white roasting bulb of magma... the expanding white blob of sugar that identifies with... scheduling conflicts... witness a gang beating with baseball bats under the bridge at a friendly fire. we shared the hookah hose with cute girls passing lip to lip but I avoided the mess to keep my clarity and my wits about me... now though.... wouldn't I enjoy sharing that smoke with another human?