Have a Cigar: Don Rafa Churchill

Name: Don Rafa Churchill

Country: Nicaragua

Shape: Parejo

Size: Churchill (7 inches x 50)

Strength: Medium

I woke up with a hangover,
ready to work on another hangover.
I am like a Sisyphus whose bottle refills
every time it is emptied.

This is my life, then.
This is where I am now.
Madness cannot be very far from here.
You can see that in my sunken eyes —
how exhausted I am!
And burned out. And bored out.

In between hangovers, there is some
suffering
and a lot of drinking.
In between hangovers, there is the life
that I never wanted… except
the love story that’s being written.

I smoke cigars, too, when I drink.
Most of the times, the cheapest cigars I can find.
Sometimes,
cigars that burn like Shakespeare’s plays in a fireplace.

And you can smell the fire in my beard
and all the verses I have burned
under the open sky.

When I drink, I like to have a pen
and a notebook in close proximity, too.
But I see how this may mislead the onlooker.

You must never mistake me for a poet
even if you see me scribble
and spit out words like active volcanoes spit out lava.

Where I come from, poems give birth to themselves.
The poet is the drunkard who happens to be there when that happens.

Where I come from, the poet has not mastered the language.
On the contrary, he has given up on language;
he merely uses it out of boredom,
distorts it, abuses it…

Where I come from, the poem is only read by the poet
who will forget
everything.

In the morning, nothing will exist but a hangover
that means nothing at all.

August 24, 2021: “Good Morning, Nightmare.”

Good morning, nightmare.
Work begins in 30 minutes.

I’m in my flip-flops, standing near the stove, waiting for the water to boil.
I’m holding a mug that contains grains of instant coffee and sands of time.
A spoon leans idly in the mug.
When the time comes, it will stir up things.
But not now.

Work
from
home.

Work
starts
now.

Silent mode: off.
A big mistake.
I start receiving notifications.
“I am following up on…”
“I am waiting for the…”
“When will we be able to…”
“Can you please…”
“It’s urgent.”

I wish I could find a way out
of this dystopia.

Silent mode: on.
A bad idea.
But it will give me five minutes
to be myself.

Have a Cigar: Condega Serie ‘F’ Magnum

Name: Condega Serie ‘F’ Magnum

Country: Nicaragua

Shape: Parejo

Size: Toro (6 1/2 inches x 52)

Strength: Medium to Full

In a folding picnic armchair
our man sat like a king on a hill
after a decisive battle.

The orange moon smiled before it was shrouded by the smoke
that crept upward
like a dead man’s soul.

A cheap cigar danced to the rhythm of classic rock songs
like a magician’s wand (burning)
like a conductor’s baton (on fire)
communicating musical ideas
celebrating life
despite the turmoil, tumult, and turbulence.

The cigar was a paint brush
and the night sky was an empty canvas.
Gray on black: an alluring belly dance.
Gray on black: the last breath of a soldier.

Our man felt a poem being written
somewhere in the near future,
a poem written phenomenologically
now.

“Yes, yes,” our man said right now.
“So the muses came like they often do
when they smell a cigar burn.”

And then he jotted down whatever came to him.