"Joint, beautiful spark of the gods,
Daughter of Cannabis Sativa and/or Indica,
We enter fire imbibed,
Heavenly, thy stoney bologna sanctuary."
Today, there’s much ado about vapes, pens, however the hell you smoke dabs, and three-foot-bongs with deluxe ice catchers and chamber stabilizers featuring neon lights that warn you when your mom or landlord is standing outside your door. But consider the joint, my friends. The roach. The doobie (as your mom may call it). This is marijuana the way it was meant to be enjoyed: a communal involvement, best when shared, when passed, and when experienced as a collective consciousness.
Do you know how many world-changing ideas were launched around a hazy circle of sweet-smelling smoke and that little rolled-up muse? The joint is humble. It’s classic. It’s stood the test of time -- even while constantly knocking people on their asses.
With a little help from the late Beethoven/Friedrich Schiller's magnificent "Ode to Joy" (let’s be honest, they’d both probably be very down with all this), I composed a brief, lyrical explanation, attempting to clear the smoke around my audacious cannabis claim.