Smoking Vegans and the End of Times

by Robert Allen

The Rapture is coming and there are signs. Sometimes it’s a quirk in the system, a derailment in the firmament, a confusion of tongues. Everything just seems off. Sometimes the fire in the sky won’t stop burning, or the winter of our senses stays cold too long. It’s all part of the summing up of the Anthropocene, burning faster than the quick ash of a cigarette. Soon our kitchen cabinets will be empty, our wells barren, a fine mist of dust covering everything that was once green and growing.

I started smoking at 38, a clear derailment, an unhealthy wobble toward an end. I used to love cigarettes. A fresh pack was like a rosary, with the aromatic sweetness of a cathedral. It was an odd choice to begin smoking later in life, but I was mad one day and it seemed like the thing to do. I borrowed one from a stranger in the street, asked for a light, pulled in my breath, and my mind opened like a dusky flower. Hooked from the beginning. Dug in. I took another draw, deeper than space even. I felt like I had wings.

During this time, I was also a committed vegan. Veganism made me feel weightless, light, and almost holy. I thought it would balance out my health, with some weird,  delusional homeostasis between cigarettes and raw carrots. I made food tasteless, flavorless, and pleasureless. My appetite was guided by a priestly, punishing diet of steamed vegetables, raw tofu, and tobacco.

But a  new day is coming, rising like smoke into a blue and cloudless sky. Time didn't end, it just had some health problems. I stopped smoking and began eating ice cream like a hobby with a gratitude large as a milk cow. The great Conflagration may still come, but when it does, I’m full of deep breaths, eggs, and butter. I’ll be just fine. Amen. Tell it brother. Amen.

BIO: Robert Allen lives in Oakland, CA with his family, where he writes, takes long walks, and seeks beauty everywhere. www.robertallen poet.com