toga poem number 1

chewing

i wore the smoke like a spiderweb
in my hair until the stickiness wore off.
even then i felt it in my mouth
like chains where teeth go.
rusty, ineffective chains
more nuisance than anything else.

but my mouth is like a canyon
which is like an empty stomach
and it howls for company,
which at this point I will allow to be in the form
of harmful area 51 escapees,
enemies that sting long
after the fire is gone.

for me, for now,
still,
a cigar can just be a cigar,
a straw is a cigar,
and ice, gum, and nails.

while my eyes are in my tongue
they will always be searching.