An overloaded ashtray
beneath the window fan
blowing outside into
the spring breeze
emits a swirl of dark, poison smoke
reminding me
I still have bad habits
to contemplate.

As the world
beyond the shadows
of my own fragile delusions
in wild, mindless contentment
of the deepest
most unfathomable presence
beneath this city
like a scab.

Drying up and healing
and its sewers
and its anger
like a backwards mountain
facing down toward the core
of the earth
from this anthill.

A block of brick bungalows
with grandmothers raking leaves
and dogs jumping fences
as they are testing
emergency sirens because
there will be tornadoes here.
Darkness, the horizon,
churning moisture,
and commingling temperatures.
A cool blanket
of rising humidity
enveloping everything
with the most subtle
electrical current
vibrating through the air.

My eyes trace
the glow of another
lit cigarette
as the smoke
wafts toward the open window
while a police helicopter
saws through its shallow altitude
above me.

The grinding
of distant machinery
blends with
buzzing motorcycles
and barking dogs
through the hum
of the window fan
into a melange
of ambient


I am always excited
for the thunderous rhythms
of a coming downpour.

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