Bill

he put three cigarette lighters

shaped like pistols

on the coffee table

between a test tube

tweezers

and a flat-tipped jewelers screwdriver

before passing the joint to the left

he said they made these torches too weak

the smoke like an albatross

around his neck

he lit a cigarette

through three inch butane jetfire

and drank cheap beer

somebody complained

that Bill would take forever

but nobody meant it

and he wouldn't hit it

until the fire was just right

but it don't matter

the meth high lasts

and he had stories

to fill twenty minutes more

he said he

stole the third lighter from the gook

that ran the quikstop and

talked about

how easy m-16s clean

as he pulled two of them to pieces

he laid each part down

side by side and

called the third one backup and

he only put one

back together

but it was tight

as his nerves on the fourth of july

and shot flames twice as high

and I wanted to ask him

about the stories nobody can finish

unless they're trying to sell you something

because Paint It Black is just a song and

Willem Dafoe is just an actor

and Bill is just a shell

that moves and smiles sometimes

when he's high enough and

shakes most other times

and he's alone not fighting Spiderman

just spiders in his head

sometimes he dances though

to Paint It Black and cries but

now he's focused

and tonight he's smoking glass and

fucking his best friend's wife

and it's all right

I don't want to ruin that

I take the pipe

and try to make him laugh