white smoke in black night

April 20, 2014

inspired by Cesar Vallejo



I will die collapsing on the path,

a day ironically unremembered.

I will die collapsing –already I sway–

maybe on a Monday, the day of my birth,


or on a Friday, because today, Thursday,

is spent in preparation for the night, when

the cold Friday morning will grace my bones

and fill my lungs with crisp, white smoke.


Nelson Vicens has died, against himself and

his demons, no mercy shown to the innocent parts.

He inhaled and injected, swallowed and stood


up until his bones collapsed beneath the

only witnesses:   the cold, crisp Friday air

and the looming branches, the spoiled dreams.

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