cohiba

Tendrils of smoke, gray haze communist Cohiba, this old rotten porch facing south, pristine breeze and flying flowers, speckled orange and heavily dotted with diamond dust, the molding stables and pasture drench, the sweet fat rolling hills, deeply bruised green and shades of pine bark, blankets of burnt red clay, a dour briar fence and tired tire garden full of banana spiders, broken barn windows and a good news bee all go sailing by, yellow and black, poison factory.

Sirens and it's like the city, endless array of bombed buildings and melted sunlight orchards of people, vast colors and somber faces, crude languages and bright fabric, funerals of busted grapes, sky-line ramparts of apple barrels, gawking dragons and chrome shrapnel, a wreck on the bridge, they get tangled in the rails, coins on the asphalt, pieces of glass from the detached windshields glitter like a soothsayer's teeth, the boats look like sugary gum drops skipping like frogs on the water. The puddles are like slimy lily pads, buzzing helicopters and more sirens, mosquito's swollen with blood, the medical parachutes and frenzied yelp of the dying embers, the ash is well over two inches, that's a sign of an exquisite cigar, a premium that costs about 20 dollars a stick thanks to that little czarist island called Cuba.