I started smoking to be like James Dean
I'd seen a picture of him once in a magazine
In retrospect, he's dead; Yet I am still
curling my fingertips around a white cigarette
...Smoke blows...
A white cigarette
that hangs off my lip
like a limousine
stuck on the edge off a cliff.
I sit in chairs with my legs spread
Never with the back against my chest
My hands in my pockets, maybe;
I'm not honest enough for stigmata
Do you have the bravery
to walk right up to me?
I'm open, easy-goin'
Mind over matter
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