Cigarettes are money. Cigarettes are history

When all we had to write on was rolling papers
all we had to smoke in was rolling papers
& we had to smoke, had to befuzzle the light with airborne oils mixed with
what our bodies wouldn’t let in, what our bodies decided they were tired of & threw away.
only so many matches, tithing me with caustic accumulation
tiny silver wires thickening the soil until it thinks its concrete
too solid for any one or thing to pass through, only smoke so rich or stupefied
it sees the sun at the center of the earth and wants to grow there, wants to obscure its light,
scramble the gravitic transmissions

i cant go outside to check the sidewalks for unburnt ends
booby trapped with dried secrets, secrets we keep from ourselves
truths that can only be uttered exhaling a mouthful of smoke