Blue smoke or is it gray?
Myself, a glass of red,
and a stick they call death
are best friends, I say.
Nothing better to take you back to
places you would like to go to,
to places you have been.
And get in touch with the person you know
Or haven’t met in weeks.
As premiums rush though your head
Inane talk puts you to sleep
better than Nyquil.
Anonymity exists I say
In certain places still
if you are lucky enough to find it.
To build stories,
enlarged versions of your truth.
And I write, with my sails possessed
With tricks of a mage
That guide me through entrails
and lead me home