my pipe

start,
start,
start,
ignite

start it.

my grandpa's pipe's in my mouth. its like having a piece of history in my mouth. not like when lewinski blew clinton. its like my grandpa, long dead and buried, leaving his pipe untouched for decades is coming to life again. this tiny piece of well-fabricated wood survived him. it survived his wife. survived thirty years. waited with patience, as much as a wooden pipe could wait. with patience.
now its here, in Eger. the only thing which deserves capital letter in my post.
so, this pipe is mine now; and its lit. lit with fire. lit with this fucking enthusiasm which doesnt want to come to an end, this impulsive fraction of life, sorry, Life.
im drunk with love, drunk with life, drunk with writing. drunk with pipe. drunk with my grandpa. is he there? anywhere? watching? listening? grinning? paying attention? i hope he has a pipe up there. even though i know we'd have a lot of fun smoking tobacco together in fonyód, now i only wish he has some tobacco up there.

people die around you. they leave you, they exit your life. it doesnt make a difference. they vanish even if they are still alive. they are dead for you. is grandpa  gone? yep. is he still smoking the pipe with me? yep.
i bet he fuckin does.

some others may still be alive; and yet they are dead.

my pipe survived my grandparents. it will probably outlast me as well.

lovers come and lovers go; but my pipe is always there. so as my pen; and so as my words.

oddly enough,

i just love this life.

just like i love my pipe.