Why Do We Smoke?

Because we want to die

Hi there.

This week I’m sharing a poem inspired by my nasty beloved habit of smoking cannabis, as well as the rash of smoky weather we’ve been getting in the Portland area from what’s already our worst wildfire season in recorded history. I hope wherever you are, you’re finding ways to stay safe, cool, and in touch with the Earth in spite of the worsening effects of man-made climate chaos.

Before that though, a brief announcement…

Upcoming Event: The Art of Place-Based Writing

On Wednesday, August 26, I’ll be co-hosting an outdoor writing workshop focused on writing about place alongside Kavi Yaga, an author visiting PDX from India to promote her short story collection Vanishings.

The event will feature a live reading, food forest exploration, and generative writing prompts based on our natural surroundings before a communal potluck to cap things off – with Indian finger foods supplied by Kavi and homemade herbal sodas by yours truly.

It’s all happening at Bloomstead PDX in Cully the evening of Wednesday, August 26. You can find the rest of the details and buy tickets on our Eventbrite page here: https://www.eventbrite.com/e/the-art-of-place-based-writing-tickets-1996761017956?aff=oddtdtcreator

If you’d like to come, I recommend booking earlier than later, since we’re capping attendance at 15 people. I’ll hope to see you there. Please share with anyone you know in the Portland area who may be interested, and message me with any questions.

Now, onto my poem of the week…

Why Do We Smoke?

We smoke because 
we are smoke,
To remind ourselves 
of the timescale 
at which this is not 
just metaphor;
at which we are just
more complex specks 
of stardust evaporating 
from a warm chunk of rock 
roasting in the orbit of our sun, 
waiting for the supernova 
to go off and burn whichever
of our species are still left 
to a crisp whose morsels 
will scatter across the galaxy 
once more. 

We smoke because 
we secretly want to die,
to contradict our greatest pretension;
that we always want to live, 
and even live forever;
that we’d want to be 
with anyone forever, 
including ourselves.
In fact, we are doomed 
to live forever, though at least 
we cannot remember beyond
each death, each transformation
from log to coal, flesh to ash, 
and eventually, through all 
the smoke that lives in the soil, 
back again.
We want to die like 
we want to sleep,
for a respite after a long day 
that may have met, exceeded, or fallen 
far short of expectations
but at least there is 
sweet forgetful rest waiting 
for us at the end—but 
when we cannot wait, 
we smoke.
Most spiritual traditions
speak of our soul and spirit 
As fire, but don’t always make clear 
what the fire in us feeds off: 
the experiences and appearances 
we so often mistake ourselves for.

We smoke because 
we love tobacco. 
We love cannabis. 
We love coca. 
Because we take what we love 
to bend to our command 
and complain how bad 
the decontextualized beloved 
has become for us.

We smoke to drown 
out the chatter of our thoughts 
without having to wait for them 
to burn out organically, 
even though it doesn’t really work, 
just casts a stuporous pallor 
over them.
We smoke because 
smoke dances, and inspires 
us to do the same.

We smoke because
We breathe fire anyways;
Might as well make it a choice.