Where the body becomes not body is where the spirit is released. Burned, cut, bled, dissolved, rotted is when the other drifts out. Smoke, a ghost of a thing, still scrapes at the lungs, harsh, acrid. Without the nicotine, harsher and dissolute the smoke would let the soul out in breathe, words and spirit contaminate with the other or even the ghost alone, drifting out like dead candle essence, to willwork the world in subtle coincidence. The more destruction, the more that escapes. Bleed it out. Let it work until it dissipates as it leaves you weaker until you heal. The body and the soul are of strange relation, conjunctive, dually generative, but divisible, condensable. Only ragged wounds allow the will out. The amputee is not with a floating ghost of spirit, but either is lessened by the reduced house of it, condensed into what body there is, or tethered, defined, and useless as a phantom limb, sore and immaterial. I would wish the breathing spirit, but not the abandonment of the flesh. Straddle the worlds and grow, not the transcendence of reuniting with the ocean from which the Buddhists say we come nor the spirituality of peaceful, otherworldly rest once the body becomes not-body, but instead the increase, the violence of natal jailbreak, the tethering abstract of seed to tree to seed to tree to ecosystem to evolution to little green men. To breathe your subtle essence out and slowly infect the order of the world, molecular hiccups in the system so the dice land six and one. Remove the obvious self, the concrete solid definition of physical identity, and remember the first thought of a thermodynamic plot. Be the poison, not the sword. Grit. Every breath scuffing the whiteskin line between self and other. Feel that rasping cough, the dryness that cracks in the back of the throat. Cigarrette magic is desert magic. Smoke is a seared place, as dry as the cracked bones of the moon. Cigarrette magic is the magic of the everpresent, the invisible, the grit and dust and the shadow of the material. It's the suicide whisper, the teetering nudge, the slow wear and grind of machinery left running after a sandstorm. It's that one more piece of straw, that one-in-a-million one milligram accident, a misfired neuron, a six degree shift, the thought of the memory of the possibility of motion in the corner of the eye. It's the slow grind, the emotional phermone trigger, the late night conversation with a dead grandfather. Cigarette magic is ghost magic.


Ah well, cigarettes just make me edgy.