Brevas Royale

"Special Selection"..My elegant combination of words were originally posted within the last few years, some were kept in jars like tobacco spiders, these Arturo Fuente stylized writing clippings have been on the recycle and cutting room floor, my sad factory of closed doors and busted windows, they lay silently on dusty wooden shelves and a few in my fancy cedar box among the classics, the more expensive Hemingway's and a rare Ashton maduro, my Queen B Jenny, it's easy to create with a magical pen, my imaginary basement where I neglect my ageless and dying craft, I added marginal spice and allegorical filler, Brevas are actually best in late October, the spice elevates the changing leaves and splashes of burnt color, a creamy Cameroon wrapper, not bad for 2 bucks a stick, give aways, mostly.

I am a cheap skate, I normally opt for the Curly Head or a Montesino if I decide to have a smoke in front of guests and they aren't connoisseurs, it's a rule to never give away an expensive fine cigar, but to feel like a gent, you can give away a Montesino, they're almost top notch, they all come from the same factory and coffee-spit of a drunken mummified torcedora.

These are the clippings of larger works, recklessly intertwined and constructed via a makeshift tourniquet, poor wrappings and exposure veins on the outer leaf, very much like a Brevas Royale, every now and then one of them will be elite, they contain a combination of every tobacco in the Fuente line, it's kinda like the potted meat of cigars, it isn't actual meat, just lips and peckers, a finger, ground up bone, the 'throw away' stuff someone got the bright idea to make use of, basically when extraordinary thoroughbred race horses die, they turn them into dog food, even if they were Triple Crown winners, it's recycled and that's how the world lives, nothing goes out to pasture on a champion's shield or crest, you get recycled, again, that's how the world lives.

Another rain garden, grape windows and another canopy of obliterated sunrise pain. I feel like a gutted deer laying in the middle of Riverside. A split gray head and the fractured lens of an elevated eye, my pink brain fragments on the wet asphalt as it rains harder, the gutter of drowned colorless leaves and broken branches overflowing into an ugly paradise of trees and manufactured green, gun-metal bridges. A terse gaze for a rabid society of bitter wolves that can never echo the gentle meek and the harmless expanding drift of my red puddle.

My lachrymose lumber room is suffocated by strangle copse and blotted by the balmy stalks of elk-thistle. The grimy windows are ever-busted and cast miry reflections of antique timber full of yellowed firefly glass and the silken sad labyrinths of slit cobwebs. They sway softly as the veiled wings of butterfly orchids in a sodden fern garden of plant rubbish and endured loneliness. 

I lay there like an old dead dry-rotted tire blackened by the falling embers of destroyed rain. Haunted cedar stumps are peppered with the hurtful lines I methodically pen and scarred by the rotten mulch of pale orange knife fissures. I have the complexion of a molding rose, quiet as the pine straw needles of far away stormy traffic. They look like bleary lanterns in the melancholy stillness.

Delicate charcoal moth feather my lemony ruptured skin, I am spotted with splotched purple and blotched with festering blue cavern holes, a parasitic deer-tick feeds on my leaking amber-marrow. I am as silent as the faded bristles of my hollowed cheek. With eyes half askew and badly broken limbs I see drowsy trees and the rusted bones of an old tractor. My soggy drench and dug red clay wall, the scattered gravel is dappled and grayer still. The exposed roots look like the arms of imprisoned goblins.

The roof of the lumber room is sunken and looks like the opening self-inflicted gunshot mouth of the dying elderly. A sickly seared plank; the last remaining discolored tooth of the hollow blackness.

My dark plastic garbage shroud is torn and gaping; a scent of bleach; blanched with the dragged agony of slow decay. I lay neatly nestled among the autumn ruin in the calming quiet before the numbing frost.

Doleful globes of cold cobalt make insecure trails of my curled and tattered tarp. I am a failed author with tired jetting ribs slick with juicy insect-mold, I feel like a bedraggled and fallen horse asleep in heavy piles of rotting sadness. A liquid barbaric pearl growing out of spite in my lower torso full of black sharp railroad spikes, my dank melting body of lifeless words and silent blossoms of poetic brush strokes and ugly meadows of umbrella mushrooms. I lay like a vernal bloom painted in field of completely silent ambrosial flowers..I am almost untouched by the dolorous rain.