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schencka
The Best Cigarette*

*Title stolen from poet Billy Collins



I'd just gotten out of a German tranlsation course, the instruction of
which was not ineffective but not effective, either. I was tired and
fiendin' to get out, for a special treat. The best cigarette. I planned
my exit as well I could; gone to the restroom momentarily, but had to
ask a fellow student for the key to it. Hotspot for the homeless, I
gather. Then I stepped out and was essentially alone, noticing the
modern day inhibitions of tobacco: "No smoking withing 25 feet"; "This
is a no smoking facility". Could it be that bad grammar could kill a
person faster than a cigarette? If the matter's life and death,
choosing death may be the only slit of light to freedom, or a wisp of
smoke to penury. Same thing, if you ask me. I was alone with the vulgar
search lights adorning the inaptly named "Learning Services Building,"
a construction project seemingly to go on into the moonlight, the
nearby Catalina mountains already disappeared. A quick breath of smoke;
still unsure of the affair. Then another; a thought of equality with
the folks, near all stinking weed smokers, with whom I have the
sometimes biweekly pleasure of being hooked up to a plasma machine.
Then a slice of heaven, a good tobacco's Effect. "I had been crazy to
forbid myself this," I thought. Hunter S. Thompson, after all, has not
let us down but since recent years. Then the billows near the noisy
yellow light; the cigarette burning poorly. You get what you pay for:
roll your owns. And at that moment, a young woman walked by me, her
protection a cell phone, weapon of choice for late night gallivants,
tho' this seemed nothing such. We were indifferent, but not ignorant.
Then, a fraternity brother, diligently moving his trash to the curb. I
turned my smoky thought to my trusted steed, a red bicycle bought from
a Mexican trader for $30, no more. I outfitted my bike for night
travel: red flashing light, a meager headlamp. Protection enough. Fear
not death. On my head a helmet, hands struggling with an overly heavy
U-lock and cable. Then away, with a couple not indiscreet spits. Time
travel in a burning stick. 2.2 miles. Home. The best cigarette. --adam


No profanes - sacred
 
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