to the cigarette - revised 2

tell me
about mummies
and furnace coal
or pottery men
standing in graves.
i need to know
what monet saw
in the station steam,
what whistles he heard
forced through a bitter lung.

please release
the machine’s secret,
how he comes pumping
with boots free of
soot. spell new dreams
from your packaged mind
your manyarmed tongues
bound like shiva, spinning.

i’ve seen your flyers
hanging from jaws,
ads for your newest film,
maybe. you’ll wear
a chaplin suit this time,
smirking with that
tiny, unforgettable moustache.
i’ll stand behind
nick drake’s shoulder,
trying to catch
your silent,
horoscopic flaw.

i’ve been here
for years and you
keep getting closer,
signaling in handtalk.
you steam in from
fifteen miles away,
bawling past the beat poets
into my grandpa
out through a goddamn exhaust pipe

who am i?
i’m the hiding boy
in the shower where you
strip off your paper dress.
i heard the colloquium and
can’t stand your priests.
your jealous breath
stinks like worn pennies,
like the manticores
who haunt streets
swinging newspapers
like incense burners.

you rise from a pond
with one eye and dance
back and forth
and moan.