Half-Centimeter Wide Spliff
Contemplative times call for slim spliffs. You roll half-centimeter wide spliffs for when you want to sit outside your suburban living quarters in search of a tiny, quiet escape. A puff is enough of a rush to send you into a dizzy. An electric shock pulsating through every tiny pore of your being moves from the center of your chest and out. Then, a small pain. A state of anguish just enough to make you feel, but also enough to make you mildly euphoric. Thoughts fill your head, theories, as the sound of crickets crowds your ears and the smell of laundry detergent, April Fresh scented, comes wafting by via the newborn Spring night breeze. The only light illuminating you is the street lamp forty-five degrees northwest above your driveway, you making up words out of your license plate: five year debate, 5YRDB8. You think enough to want to write.
Average Joe Joint
A book is thrust very close to your face. It is summer morning. You have yet to put on your glasses. You scratch the neighborhood cat with your foot. You surreptitiously glance at your dying lavender plant. You refuse to admit defeat. To admit that you can't take care of a plant means that you can't even take care of the being you are scratching with your foot. To be unable to nurture and provide for a cat means being unable to take care of a baby. That kind of existential crisis is way too early for a summer morning that already feels molasses slow. That is something you cannot handle so early on a late-summer morning.
For those nights that you must smoke copious amounts because you're hanging out with the boy who rolls you the tulip joints. The fact that you are hanging out with him is enough stress. You don't know why you put yourself in this position again.
You need to smoke copious amounts. His presence freaks you out, his wolf-like nature, his quiet cowboy esteem. Mysterious. Alluring. You see him above you, thrusting his lean, cut body into you. He is drilling you. He is fucking you.
You observe each other coldly as if you two are mirrors. He watches himself drill himself into you. You watch him drill himself into you. You're thinking, "God, he is so beautiful. It's like I can't even touch him. I can't believe he is drilling himself into me. And I'm watching him. He thinks I'm sexy, and I can taste the aftertaste of beer in my mouth."
He looks pristine yet grungy, and he smells like it. You don't remember much more than this the morning after. You wish that you could like him. You miss him. You want him back. Then you are not so sure.
Tonight you imbibe a cone joint accompanied with a strong cocktail at the hotel's bar in the lobby. Tonight is the kind of night when you desperately ache for tenderness and slow passion. You settle for a night of hot, blurry sex with three other people. They are tourists and they are beautiful. So are you. You all are disconnected, being that we all are visiting from far places. Your very hearts are removed. The act is beautiful. The intentions are beautiful. You all have a very spiritual, fun, exorbitant time, but it takes away from you. It is like a love without the history, without the foundation. Like a father whose I-love-you's are empty because he doesn't know you. It is a love and apathy that is calm and takes over you like an ethereal epiphany. You forget that you don't care because the calm is for real. It is everlasting.
Half-Inch Width Joint
That Summer you rented that shit of a place in a sensationally rebellious, anarchist shit-hole. Your roommate hated, but you didn't mind. You secretly loved it behind his back. You secretly thought you found peace among the alternative foodie, organic grocery stores, the farmer's market, the hole-in-the-walls, the bookstores. The oh-so tiring elitist, we're-progressive-but-we're-consumerist-capitalist-hypocrites atmosphere filled your lungs and nearly made you choke. But you laughed out instead just the moment you were about to cough from that painful feeling of almost dying. You laughed and you breathed in the piss and incense stank of the air as you zoomed down your block filled with rundown houses, trees, and corner shops. You pedaled past the pedestrians because it's best to bike in a city like this. Walking brings a different mood. Walking is for daytime and the sun. You want a rush, to forget the city night lights and pretend everything is a beautifully dark blur.
One night, when you invited a bunch of folks over, and they all converge drunkenly and awkwardly, you did a couple lines with some friends. You rolled a half-inch joint, and you didn't know why you did it. It was far too huge. But you laughed, impressed and smug with your own neat work of a joint. You passed it around to everyone who then made a comment about how big the joint is, each new comment sounding way too similar to the last. You liked the big joint idea. You finished smoking it. You were really high. You did more lines, and you forgot who you were. You forgot you are a being who gets tired and must go to sleep. You slept around 7 AM after you drove eighty miles up and down your town for no god damn reason. You woke up somehow pleased. You turned to face your roommate who was already up drinking tea and facing the south window. He turned to face you, acknowledged your waking up on the futon. You smiled and said, "Good morning," even though it was two in the afternoon.