words

it tastes of dust and is sedimentary,
tiny flecks of questionable matter
rotating slowly in the small current
of the glass container,
the walls stained with thin soap residue
recalling a more primitive version of self,
water in thin supply
but the cigarettes grow like vines
and smoke rings revolve around the ceiling fan
like planets in slow orbit threatening to vanish,
caught in the gravity of a sun turned off,
deviating from law and condensing to a purity
of self identification,
burning only in the shadow of reason.

the jar is spotted with orphaned drops
and there is none left to drink
and a profound thirst becomes this elegant moment,
like pollinating flowers in winter,
the ashtray is filled with deformed missiles
from this dirty war bedroom
and there are veins in everything
showing through the thin flesh of thought,
writhing with fluidity
and thirsty as men in hell.

-S.C. Martinez