The Stomach Waits

He benched them to the underworld
from which no smoke escapes.
Only the latent waft remains.

Ash costume.

Wrapped in decorated
cigarette sticks is how we die.

Take breath in knowing
that they choose what brand
they smoke; take liberty
in choosing the taste
of freedom.

Oh yes, freedom has a taste--
the charcoal black of its liquorish
tongue kissing itself in the swim
of the mouth.

And why not flush?
They heard they are not afraid to die.

They buy death at every corner,
twenty slender soldiers
in white uniforms,
fighting for the underground,
prostituting the chambers
of throat, of lung of heart.

On the bank of the underworld,
a sign read PEA
the C and E fell off.

No smoke escapes here.

This is the hole in the ground,
the mouth of the earth's stomach,
where he benched them

so they will forever be digested
by the knowing, by the causes

of the death, of the brand.