I like smoking so much. Unlike weed where you linger on the feeling, cigarettes force awareness of input to the body, the circulation between the world and myself, where my reality conflicts or harmonizes with the state of things that ultimately wraps me but doesn't matter.
Poetry is for writing what can't be written.
I even think I sing a little better having smoked before I practice, either adding a burning traction that I might better control my wind, or slicking my throat to flow more freely. I can't decide, but the idea of a "smokey voice" is less an accent than it is a utility, for me a provision of confidence that my chords, passed hourly by chemicals, are changing--a second, isolated puberty that in some way extends to the renaissance accompanying a deliberate attempt to smoke, to understand, to grow.
But I'm a little more jittery so my penmanship is getting worse, exchanging my voice for my hands, one medium for another. And I like it so much, though my hands constantly smell of smoke.
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