I woke because of the twitching chain attached to the manacle around my neck that stretches to the backdoor to the first cigarette of the day. I could say that smoker looks like a poet. He's a cosmo metro hetro hanging on the morning in his Ethiopian dressing gown, bought by the Merkato in Addis. He stands with cigarette held high as smoke pirouettes in likewise poses that twist and become blue inky stratocumulus lenticularis about him. I could pretend it’s kinda fun kinda stylish, the Winehouse way.
But that first cigarette? THAT FIRST CIGARETTE establishes who’s the pimp and who’s the crack whore. Tell you a secret. Yesterday I tip toed out the house into the field. Enough is enough I said to myself and I did not light the cigarettes but poured water over them. It’s been twenty four hours since that moment. I woke midnight, this morning at 4.30am. I wrote this at 5.11am. I am posting it at 8.50am…no. 9.30am. It's all good. As the Caribbean saying goes More Time