I have found the perfect cigar.

I admit it. I don't like smoking. I don't like the smell. I don't like the taste. I don't like the headache or the off taste in my mouth.

But this is the perfect cigar. It stays lit all by itself. I don't even need to suck-start it. With a good wind, I can blow out through the little sucker and it stays lit all by itself, producing enough fumes to choke the old bint who lives next door. She thinks that it's Frank that goes out and sneaks a cigar when everyone is in bed. But no, I admit it, it's me. I have to do something with my insomnia on the hot summer nights when even the air conditioner leaves you drenched in sweat.

This cigar reminds me more of tobacco smudge sticks used by indians in purification rituals. My ancestors have lived on this land for so long and intermuddled that who knows what tribes may pulse through my veins. I feel like chanting and waving feathers, but I do not wish to do something wrong- I might invite something else I don't understand or wish to deal with, and I have enough problems with my own religion. But still, there is something of a holy spark in the fire I hold between my fingertips, and I can wish for better things on the smoke that blows on up to heaven. We use incense too in my church.

The cigar does not stub out like cigarettes do. It disintegrates completely if I hold it too tightly, and it cracks when I bang it on the ashtray. There is nothing left to burn, so I breath the cleansed night air deeply, then go back inside.

I will have dreams now, I know. And I welcome them home.  ¶ 1:52 PM