Je ne fume plus - In My Dreams

In my dreams
I can smoke a million cigarettes
and it doesn't matter
In my dreams
I can touch your cheek
and you smile back at me
My grandson waves
through the curtains
My old Siamese
climbs into my lap
Venus still sets
over the Acropolis

There are days
I don't want to wake up
When day dreams
aren't enough
Yet I go on
and on and on and on
in spite of myself
Set the mechanical heart
Break an egg into a cup
Sweep, mop, wash and brush
Then fold myself up
ready for my dreams

Je ne fume plus - Evening

When the day is done
sadness comes
like ruinous 
like heavy
like undone

I climb into bed
and the thoughts rain down
until I'm drowning
and all i can wish for
is a swimming lesson

the horizon is lost
purple to dark
under coverlets
with music in my ears
to remind me of

everything i've done
everything i didn't do
how i was never enough
and now how alone i am
because of it

je ne fume plus
in the evenings
nothing can help
this sadness
so I must go with it

when i wake 
before dawn
i'll shake it from my hips
and detach my lips
from its kisses

Je ne fume plus - High Noon

A hundred degrees on my head,
a splitting headache--
Split me down the middle
and set free all the rage,
the grief, the regrets
that crowd around
these screaming neurons.

I've had enough of you,
oh my children...
I wove your boundless bodies,
birthed you, twisted you
so many times around my fingers,
my hands might fall off.
Even if you are my own inventions
I'm sick to death of this:
I wish the best for you,
Can you wish the best for me?
Can we be friends now?

Split me down the middle
empty me of all the
sullen push and pull
I practiced for so long,
I sucked into my lungs,
I swallowed like a whore,
then fill me with
enough joy and will
that I might go on.

Je ne fume plus - Waking

A million new memories
break upon the rocky shore
of my resonating body--
I'm waking up in a dream about
doing things without cigarettes,
completing an action,
finding a rest stop,
pausing to take in the emptiness of
long silences I can still abide.
My arms lie at my sides,
my feet are on a pillow:
the whole world seems inverted.
I sigh as I realize that old memories 
will cling to neurotransmitters
and leak upon my bed 
until I rise and apply 
what might be called forgetting
but better yet is called begetting
because je ne fume plus is an action
more than a thought 
and must be practiced.
So I get up and live
my newest history.