Moving PicturesJack Garcia
“You’re not doing it right,” he said,
packing the powdered herbs more tightly,
lighting the fire that will start
the moving picture show.
“You need to inhale deeper.
With your stomach, not just your chest.”
I try again, coughing, laughing a little.
The smoke scratches at my throat
with its vaporish claws.
Dust-smeared images flicker
on the torn screen. Faded
Technicolor slows down
and slows down
until it stops with a rip
in the film and a cigarette burn.
All life is on pause.
Then, slowly, the colored lights return
and in slow-motion I unwrap him,
his clothes like rolling papers,
and we laugh at how funny our movie is.
I inhale all of him, not just with my chest,
but with my whole being
and he tickles my throat.