Lately i've been thinking to myself that there is poetry in smoking. I know that's kind of an odd statement, but it has ritual, custom, supersition... it is a litl elike it's own sort of religion. And as such deserves it's hymns, odes, psalms, and scripture. The following is a short piece i wrote about a piece! It has sort of been ripening in my brain, and i finally decided to see where to go with it. She was something different to all of us, though we called her all the same thing: Madame, The Lady. She was a stately woman, who held court from a closet full of computer gear in the corner. If we made the proper offerings, she would come out to entertain us all. To the two women of our group, she was a goddess. A divine being, before whom men prostrated themselves. And if they did not do so voluntarially, they would still soon be on their backs before her. We, the other girl and I, were her priestesses, novices under her tutalege, gaining wisdom and magic under her guidance. To her owner, she was a wiley old woman, or perhaps a whore with many years under her belt. She knew the ways of pleasure, and would show them to anyone, for a price. To another of our group, she was a mighty force to be overcome. Perhaps this man loved her most fiercley. Every time her took on the Lady, he would come away doubled over, hardly able to breathe for minutes at a time. But the last of our circle was not so poetically minded. He looked at her, and though he would call her by name, he saw only a bong. No woman, no goddess, just a tool.