Stepping into the void
of this old factory
I smell only the dust
that awakes to the clack of my heels.
The rust of use blankets the head
and keeps it warm throughout
a seemingly endless winter.
I am unable to imagine
the ghosts;
the wind has their breath.
It creeps through a checkerboard
of broken windows,
or mountains as I see them
from here,
on the production floor.
I’m in the mood to drive,
but a destination I
can do without.
On a road with no
speed limit I will
press the throttle
to the floor and close
my eyes, or ease off
it, and fall asleep
behind the wheel, in
the backdrop of
a rural expanse.
Coast across the barren
cornfields and not care
they will soon sprout and
grow shopping plazas.
The future can’t touch me;
I’m not headed that way.
The past I already fixed
by breaking the rearview
mirror; I need no luck
on a road of emptiness.
On this drive I
procure only exhaust
and take from it
only the scenery.
The rain by chance alone
settled in the comatose
terrascape, false moon surface
that were the pockmarked
streets at midnight.
Black puddles flooded the
cavernous expanses, swayed by
fresh droplets that were
absorbed into the urban abyssal
pools like the faint yellow shine
of streetlights through the fog.
Flushing between the grooves
of asphalt treads oozed canals
of piss and cheap gin, cough syrup
and the bile of addicts. The thin
blood of agitators and victims
beaten by rain pedals into a single
red river flowing into yards of
melting dog feces and bug
pesticides – peppery and bubbling,
bursting it’s hologram residue onto
the pavement where it swirls in a
roll of motor oil and sweet sweet
antifreeze. All of which spill
into the water, their molecules
expand, and kill the element,
becoming nothing but a deluge
of poison unsuitable for life.
I beat the late night rush
at the White Castle drive-thru
for the first time tonight.
The cashier mistakenly gave me
an extra dollar in change
with my order.
While sitting in the parking
lot, eating my delicious regret,
a vagrant approached my window,
and began her sob story.
She mumbled incoherently
and I waved my hand
to make her disappear.
She did and I continued
my cheap feast of pleasure
as an employee is accused
and that woman dies slowly.
Now my stomach churns and
nothing feels as it should.
I had a long drive ahead of me. I was going to Chicago, and was in the mood for a consistent smoke to last as long as the interstate. I selected the Padrón Principe from the 1926 Anniversary series because I had yet to try a cigar from that series. Padrón makes a fine smoke, and cigars of the anniversary line are box-pressed and rolled with tobacco that’s been aged four years. They’re also double banded, and the second band that is wrapped under the top band contains an individual serial number of sorts, to ensure it’s an authentic cigar of the anniversary line. These cigars are purely Nicaraguan, and the wrapper is maduro, placing it on the stronger side of cigars. Cigar smoking can be a very serious hobby when it comes to details like that.
As far as the smoking experience, the Principe produced a consistent and almost immaculate burn when lit. The ash was weak, however, breaking from the cigar when barely a half of an inch long. To my disdain, the ash fell onto my jeans. The flavor was thick, bready, and I was pleased to encounter a prominent spiciness halfway through, which continued to the end of the smoke. And the strength was impressive for the Principe, given it’s petite size that is similar to a corona. For as much as I enjoyed this cigar, I do feel that there is another variety in the 1926 series that would better suit me.
George T. Mormann