head of state

In this blank form I think of you
as I roll my belabored Bali Shag.
Neat now, by a dextrous hand,
smoke curls in the shape of a W.
Is it smoke that makes a man?

All these accoutrements of cool,
and idle chat of how we style our hair,
moot vapors, but I clutch at them.
As a cat at a phantom bats its paw,
I swing at the specter of self.

All these qualms of authenticity,
doubt at truth of what is solid and real.
I met you in a labryinth of As-If settings,
the stage sets of North Beach,
husks of history.

Our Time is no less worth keeping.