The Smoking Nun

The Smoking Nun inhales, cigarette dangling from religious lips. Is she smirking cause she knows something Divine? Did she skim the sublime with those ashen fingertips? What's she thinking? If I lit a cigarette and covered my hair, would I plug into the Cosmic Computer, the one filled with microchips and coded beauty and equations for grace? I'll hire a sherpa and climb on his back, traveling to the mountaintop with a woven backpack and a Menthol burning to the quick, lighting the dry air, illuminating the toxic, the golden dust. I want a truth to hold close. I want to run across Fellini's black and white beach and drag in the unblinking sea urchin, the one held fast in netting, but emancipated by the ocean's truth.