i put on some jazz as background music and decided to ight was as good as any to write

and i stared at my phone

the bass plucked by righteous hands, and the brass sounding like an angels chorus

and i stared at the screen of the damned phone

bill evans hit the keys and set the entire thing off on a new tangent

and i stared at the screen even longer

i wanted a cigarette, it’s been months since i snuck the last one that i told myself was the last one but one more so need good right about now

the jazz didn’t do it’s job

the screen stares back at me blank still

mocking me

you want to call yourself a writer but it seems all you really want to be is a smoker

and i hit stop and the room grows quiet

too quiet

and all i can hear is the mocking sounds of the words dancing just out of sight

and that feeling that a smoke would do me some real good right now

i don’t even have a lighter

the more i think about a cigarette the worse the craving gets and the worse the craving the more pissed off i am that words wouldn’t come when i wanted them

so i hit play again and set my phone on the charger and close my eyes

i don’t need the words anymore than i need the cigarette

now a cigar

that would really scratch the itch while not being the one thing i told myself no more of

me and cigarettes had a long history

i like them, they like me

i like a lot of things that are bad for me

i like whiskey, i like women, i like drugs

but i’ve been sober for a long time and women don’t seem to like me as much as i like them these days

or they are much better at hiding it than i am

so i listen to the music and pretend i have a her laying with her head on my chest and my arm is wrapped around her and the other hand hovers above my head with a lazy spiral of blue smoke rising

if i try real hard i can smell the wildflowers in her hair and hear the crackle as the tobacco burns

this is just as good until the damned words stop playing hide and go fuck yourself with my emotions

there are days when i will write fifteen poems and half a chapter with out even thinking about it

then there are days when all i do is think about it and all i have are memories and silence

i don’t know which one is more bittersweet

having all the words and no one to share them with, lying on the couch in checkered boxers, fingers going a million metaphors an hour

or the quiet daydreams of a her that can stand me and the music playing while i smoke phantom cigarettes

one of these days something has to give i tell myself

either my sanity or my will power

both are sorely tested

and still bill and his trio play on

if they notice my discomfort they sure don’t show any sign of it as they go off on another freestyle jam

talented bastards probably never had to daydream about women and smokes

that’s the life

but not the one for me

fate is a prickly bitch sometimes and i wonder if she is one of my ex-girlfriends with an axe to grind

i probably deserve it

probably