That was like a newspaper (sad and self-effacing as a newspaper), when everything was rain winter noir and the barest of fossils of the street were stripped back by cold white, everything dripping off the branches. Real old wind, maybe one that’s always been blowing; come down from centuries right to some sidewalk in Queens, New York, to happen on three’a the most lonesome strangers ever walked that night- three stranded musicians and three kings of clocks. Destinies and histories and futures on different tongues: mine on fire and water and in a cross, in the backhanded nervousness. M’’s in the twist of his hands and the secret of his smoke and the fluidelectric rhetoric of words; of familial music twice abandoned, so to speak. And Dee has his own shyness and his own past fires; you can only see him though through the context of the love he’s given- through her open eyes & arms. Who cares for the future? Fer then it was a struck out bubble at the bottom of the sea, and isolated, street suicide and freshly-fallen blackness.
Anyway it wasn’t any big deal but it was the separation of fates; and how through the spheres of isolation something may be communicated, only vaguely and by the side. Lots of vibes. Lots of dead things, better that way. There was lotsa talk of apartments, cars, new-time investments, jobs, chicks, and other earth things that seemed double tongued and lashed by bigger kings. You couldn’t evade the ancient wind. There were only three cigarettes left and so, solemn fingers licking flickering sadness, we passed the pack and the light and shared the final smoke there. When holding a cigarette: knuckles bunched and fingers protective in a beautiful kinda way, one that guards thought. Smoke and knuckles like music to the jawline-
The boundaries of solitude closed and there was only solitude; no gold threads passed through the gray, and instead they swam outside it. All stripped to the barest black and white. It was isolation and melancholy; all future kinda dripped and slipped away. This eye aint accustomed nor will it ever bend to speak in terms of “we,” but any I who saw it would say that this was the closing hour and that “we”/we in smoke were the final ones who listened to melancholy forever; called like hounds to this tearing world. Together in the long world of winter. A note in some long song.
The vague gray comfort of a cigarette. The smoke had all the sadness and the hunger and it spiraled up and sparkled through the skeletal branches of black trees and eye watched its low warm tongue.
a quick glimpse of a particular night; the black-and-white world of the last cigarette in winter.