How nirvana means different things to people,
A nicotine high, some cannabis,
A little coffee to take away the cravings,
A sugar cookie at the corner shop,
A meat pie from a 7/11 store
Or under a mistletoe tradition.
How the best part of the day,
Is looking at my wife listening to
Eclectic music, charged like a nectar-full butterfly,
Walking aimlessly to a thumping beat.
Michelle, I call her, and still, she cannot
Hear me, so lost in that zone of hers.
We kiss goodnight and wait
Until one becomes oblivious of another,
How we are like logs, on which, dreams grow,
Like fruiting bodies, mushrooming over,
While we wake up to a loud alarm clock,
That quakes a little, shouts a lot.
How Nirvana doesn’t have to be out of this world,
As I smoke time, looking for a high in all four senses,
Her petrichor after a morning shower,
Her cough-syrup flavored lips when she gets the flu,
Her sugar maple irises at each goodbye, her heartbeat
I hear, as she holds me close on her chest,
Her favorite words, like “colon burps”,
And calling me “spiffy”, every time
I wear a checkered shirt.
How beautiful that some traditions,
Feel like a brand new smoke.
My wife, my choice drug of recreation,
Filtering through. How she trespasses on me,
With my discolored lips, bad breath, stained incisors,
Dental caries, and oral bacteria,
OD-ing my fickle world, with nicotine.
Our mistletoe customs inside a well-lit room,
Infiltrating loose defenses,
Letting her mouth gently intrude,
And stay occluded for a while.