Father Little Smoke
Limpid essence of understanding
by Max McGovern
For that which is no disappearance
And returns without disguise to float
Without purpose or knowledge of its going.
By breath and breadth of impulse,
Now becomes a conscious inhalation.
I figure four or five in fifteen
Fit the framework
For mindless, hypnotic use of smoke.
Pensive minds, wandering
Through the air
Find their counterparts
And rest their hearts
that lift without the process
Of expending any energy.
Elevated mind states
Mingled with static flow
Of moleculed glow that extends
Less than no distance from lips.
When eyes close
Faint orange can be seen
And a crutch.
Last night I had a dream I jumped out of an airplane with two friends.
One of them was able to light a cigarette in mid air.
I wanted to ask him how he’d done it, but I asked instead for a drag.
we fell through the sky, next to the plane, for hours.