This book is high.

This book is the product of an illegal mind, the spawn of an outlawed consciousness.

Separately these stories, essays, poems, and jokes don't mean much. So I cleaned them up, dumped them out onto paper, and then rolled up a big joint of words.

And this is the result. It smolders with imaginative horror, mystical speculation, hyper-vivid dreams, disconnected humor, and nebulous memories. There are words all over the place, stray lines and ideas leading no where, weird scenes flaming up and then dying down, characters drifting in, and then stumbling out amidst swirling poems and rambling psychedelic thought-talk.

That's why I call it The Book of Smoke.