Jesus Won't Steal our Cigarettes

I'm listening to Neal Young
singing "Sugar Mountain"
in our rented modern cabin
with old pine panelling,
wearing my Tibetan engagement ring:

streaming Nag Champa incense
in a $20 jade plant,
a Picassoesque nude
by my old friend Walt Evans,
internet and a computer full of music
but a missing chord,
memories of cities, corporations
and psych wards where I was bored,
a pawned guitar bong
and Indian mishma,
stacks of shiny side
to shiny side CDs,
tall red tinted glasses
left me by grandma Dorothy
(who enjoyed a trip to China
in her old age)

I had a nightmare
and Courtney assured me
she'd never leave me for a condo

Courtney had a nightmare
and I assured her
that Jesus would never
steal the world's cigarettes