quot;We real cool. We Left school. We Lurk late. We Strike straight. We Sing sin. We Thin gin. We Jazz June. We soon." Poem by Gwendolyn Brooks. You can think of me as the form of the smoke I exhale, etherical and unwonted. I'm like a modernistic piece of sushi. I'm the pink meat that lays over and my smoke covers me like seaweed. Would you like to smoke me like a cigarette? Or to smoke my smoke? To smoke the smoke which has already been in my young pink lungs? I would make up figures and animals in the air with my smoke and you are going to smoke my smoke, so, in fact you're smoking me! Do you want MY smoke in your chest? That would be a real french kiss between smokers. Every thread of smoke that comes out of my cigarette is the thread of a story. I smoke and I name my smoke art, so you're gonna smoke my art, boy