An ode

to my study hole
and the letter O
which is so smooth and passes
so slow.
It's easy to blow rings of smoke
in time's face
through an open window
to my soul
ohhhhhhh
where do hours go? and
why do i feel so
infinite, dripping coffee down
my throat under this dim glow?
I know that relatively
according to the history of things
the world is a movie and my life
just a tv show
on for maybe a season, dies after
the first snow.
and still I grow my foliage
low to ground
near the flow of a river's rushing sound
and forget
that i explode on a molecular level
sing to the air and ignore
death's impending
low blow.