It's over.
I am throwing them away.
The last 2 cigarros,
hopefully for life.
The gringo business
is finally
coming to a close.
I find I am
hungover from it.
Dealing with gringos
is like going on a bender.
It's something from which
it is necessary
to recover.
I have no white guilt, no
America guilt; I
hate all that.
And gringo isn't a racial
term anyway,
but I'm tired of talking
to a room full of refrigerators
that are constantly
disregarding with
and argue
me.
Holy smokes it's cold up there.
I don't mean the weather.
The vibes are pure
hielo.
Not entirely unfriendly.
But not entirely undeadly,
either.
* * *
It has turned me into a smoker,
against my will,
though I have been grateful
for the nicotine.
It helps.
After all...
soldiers smoke.
Men at war.
Prisoners and madmen.
People on the street.
Smokers for the most part.
A cigarette throws a leash around the nerves
and keeps the little elves that
pull the levers in my brain
from throwing themselves
(and therefore me)
over the edge.
A cigarette is reliable.
It ties all the moments together,
and makes things linear.
Events, moments, traumatic explosions.
Burstings into flame.
Talking to your brother's lawyer,
or the angry gringo
bank.
* * *
A cigarette puts
everything in line.
Nothing out of place.
No matter what happens next,
or is happening
now,
for the next 2 or 3 minutes,
the world will make sense.
I am going to smoke this cigarette,
and it is going to listen
to me.
It will be done when I say it's done.
And the floaty headspace
calms me down,
even if I hate it.
It's better than drowning in madness.
* * *
Cigarette smoke is like clean,
clear mountain air
Compared
to the fumes of deadly noise
floating
through the death room.
But I'm throwing it away.
The gringo business is finished,
or close enough
for now.
Jesus always tells me
to put the cigarette out
early
anyway,
and I always hesitate to obey,
for a breath or two,
before I put it out
early,
sometimes
saving it for later, sometimes
not.
And we were walking down
the street today,
Jesus and me,
and I was the rock & roll
disciple with a death
wish,
and the kid
walking next to me
on the other side
of Jesus
was not entirely at ease.
But it's okay.
It's because I'm old to him,
and he doesn't have anything to say
to an old gringo with a
death wish.
I don't expect him to care.
Maybe that's why I'm here.
It's okay if these people
don't care.
It isn't personal.
It doesn't hurt as much.
I don't even understand what they're saying
most of the time.
It's a relief.
I don't want to know what they're saying.
And while speaking Spanish is
exhausting,
if not entirely
un-fun,
and I may not be
the greatest
at it,
talking to Mexicans
is like talking
to a river.
Español es un gran palabra de agua.
Spanish is a great word of water.
Flowing, liquid, crazy.
It's better than talking
to a refrigerator
on a power
trip.
* * *
And so me & Jesus
were walking
back from the tienda,
where I bought 4
printouts,
3 cigarettes,
some leche,
and I make sure He knows I'm grateful
for the cigarros,
even as I ask Him to liberate me
from the gringo business
so I can throw the rest
of them away.
Today, if it's
okay.
I think today's the day.
It is.
I'm throwing them away.
Hooray.
