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...and they lived happily ever after. Smith & Lady: poets, artists, photographers & adventurers.
Our relationship was forged to the soundtrack of Yoko Ono's magic,
frenetic, love-laden song, "Walking On Thin Ice." ( play song )

more daily poems for the few

February 20th, 2018

Here are more of my poems from our 5-poet Februweary poem-a-day-a-thon. Must say it’s a wee bit difficult producing this time. Money, politics, class war, liars in office, child-rapist President… whatcha gonna do?


Status Report 263

Hey Mister Trashman
won’t you haul my life away
it stinks of rot and scraps
and rabid rats
with soft cell decomposition
sticking to the sides
my rock unrolled
my roll discontrolled
my lay consumed in lie

– 2.17.2018


Snow and low outside
inside hospital waiting room
no warmth

– 2.17.2018



Doctor Skuzz on TV
feeding off white trash misery
in whorier-than-thou worship
of more the mess a rating bless…
bottom feeder seeding slime
on our dime

– 2.17.2018


Words of life
on page in lines —
Rumi in the room

– 2.17.2018


Plan B

Walk the wheel of woven weep
checking mirror for mutant meat

sun going up, sun going down
light and shadow in repeat

looks bad now but good near dawn
as old carrot becomes brand new prong

we feed it feel it fuel it fight
or ache in if if we don’t do right

fake it far and fake it long
or remember taste of sweet like peach

suffering daily human mark
shufflle off our heartbreak bleak

wandering from wrong to wrong
done been down for far too long

sometimes feel life’s on repeat
sometimes need to seek a peek

best talk up fair then talk belong
remember taste of sweet like peach

dark and light in circle dance
bad and good around it go

some is planned some is chance
joy goes fast while pain leaves slow

all is merely part of it
gotta play cuz we can’t quit

deal in real to seal the song
reappeal your contract ink

hope to find a friendly throng
try to make the bad guys think

and if of course it all goes bad
enjoy the good in life you’ve had

cuz upstream the rich shit and piss
passing toxins down to us

we foot the bill for their high class
while their greed’s shoved up our ass

they’re killing us with their expense
maybe time for self defense

get the torches pitch and fire
let’s help the bastards retire

– 2.18.2018


We All Fall Down

The slo-mos go slothful, slow,
the greeders grind in endless gruel,
the stealers stack their stolen deck,
the bullies bruise below.

Heading down the professional line
it’s Entropy by a stretch.

I put my foot in the sock,
the sock in the shoe,
the shoe on the ground,
and take a step…
to where?
Or why?

It’s one hasty constructed lie
from me for you,
from you to them,
for them from them.

Do you read my lie and believe?
Should I return the favor?
Or at least pretend?

It’s worse than Plato’s cave.
We are our shadows
on walls not there
in light unlit.

I ache from wake,
work for woke,
rather roll joints than rock,
and Tantalus can keep his sour grapes.

Every day I seek a seed
to bleed into a koan,
direct roam to unbuild day,
and look for the me I don’t see
in the mirror.

Sacred lies keep lives alive
for the sucker minute born.

– 2.19.2018


Another hospital
another waiting room —
free uncertainty, with crackers

– 2.20.2018


What You Need to Know

I don’t know much,
never have,
never will,
but surviving 72 years of drugs,
alcohol, running from the cops,
stupid stumbling and basic bumbling
thanks to a lot of luck
I can say
it’s best to be kind, patient, forgiving,
and a bit false in face
so others think you care,
(and for the record – start caring, really)
listen, say less,
be more,
but most of all
have good genes,
an unnatural luck,
and amuse the gods
so they go a little lightly,
keep you around for laughter
instead of squishing you like a bug

– 2.20.2018


Wake in dark
Look for light
Stumble to start

– 2.20.2018


Wake next to my love
hearing unmade coffee’s call
darkness lightens

– 2.20.2018


Funky jazz
from pre-dawn speaker
soothes new day’s score

– 2.20.2018


The cat
And the coffee
And the dark
And Moondog howling for the sun

– 2.20.2018


use other door

February 16th, 2018

Unmotivated towards blogging. Or explaining. Or exploring our culture. Lot of it has to do with having a blatant thief/rapist/pervert/liar as president #45. Some of it is since we came back to the US in 2009, folk aren’t as interested in what I have to say. Part is I now post 99% poetry and nobody gives a shit about poetry.

So of course here’s my next batch of poems from our 5-poet Februweary poem-a-day-a-thon featuring Mary E. Weems, Lady K. Smith, Ray McNiece, John Swain, and me.


Limbic System

1981 driving from Ohio winter
to Las Vegas sun to pick up my brother
while wasted on wine and grass and speed
and bone cold from Cleveland
I stopped at an Arizona roadside park
where the sun shone
climbed on top the biggest boulder
and laid on it
face down
arms stretched wide
hugging it lizard-like for warmth.

A car stopped
family got out
began walking towrds the rocks
then saw me raise my head and look at them.

They stopped
turned around
returned to car
and left.

– 2.12.2018


Philosophy 169

You live for the moments,
slog through the rest.

– 2.12.2018


Philosophy 170

More’s not always more,
nor less less.

More can be whore or adore,
less bless or mess.

– 2.12.2018


Sisyphus Sighs

Despair’s got teeth,
and swamp’s everywhere.

The rich eat the poor,
strip their cupboards bare.

Like Golden Hops & the 3 Beers
too much not enough.

Weighing want and need
kinda rough.

Two empty bottles
don’t a 6 pack make.

For true crime watch the rich
who take.

Liquid lick of like and love
eases pain of rot.

Rolling rock when no one can
takes the knot from not.

– 2.13.2018


Fame & Fortune

Walked the sand,
water washed my steps away.

Went on hightop dirt,
wind erased my strode.

Climb to mountain top,
rock wont take my print.

– 2.13.2018


Rock Uproll

Blood’s so red
I’m so dead
the life I led’s a whore

Quoth the craven evermore

Release this cloth
that leads such loss
to light like moth

And weigh the right of wrong

We walk the stairs
to higher wheres
seeking prayers

In search of sweeter song

So end of day
our do and say
maintains way

As we count up score

– 2.14.2018

~ ~ ~


The last sip of coffee coats my throat
with the warmth of an old overcoat

Night stacks dark on dark
for dreams to lighten

Day slides hope after hope
hiding in plain light

Life’s orchards become more fertile
at full moon and high tide

Let us outlast our shadow

– 2.14.2018

~ ~ ~

Winter’s discontent
assassinates summer
seeds spring

– 2.15.2018

~ ~ ~

In the Beginnings

The Void rose in the unrisin
and after creating black and grey
and fog and slow and fuzzy
and endless
and sad
“Let there be coffee”
and life began

– 2.15.2018

~ ~ ~

Heisenberg’s Uncertainty

Start and stop
is most of what we got

I mean
there’s direction or speed
want and need
hole in bleed
you know
the knot in not

Which leaves the cat dead
or alive
and we here
or there
(but only if someone’s looking)

Best guess less is more more or less
and all illusion anyway
weighted dice from the bones of the dead

– 2.15.2018

~ ~ ~

Anger Management

Everyday is Soylent Green
reduced down to fat or lean
in every way we’re nibbled nub
gnawed, declawed, wrongly rubbed
walking wall of wretched wry
to answer cattle call of lie
jerking here or working there
vector stresses everywhere
snubs and sharps and flats forlorn
fade in rush and gush of lore
till soft and dreamless sleep doth fall
to mend the rend that tends us all
hurry scurry worry more
strip your soul of moral core
doesn’t mean you’re a whore
but shouldn’t there be some soar
faster farther further flux
makes a difference how one struts
instead of pay to play or be called nut
jump on in and rub your rut
run to ragged rend of life
jumping over hurdle strife
protecting back from the knife
hiding anger running rife

– 2.16.2018


catch up ketsup

February 11th, 2018

These past 12 months have been difficult for Lady what with discovering eye cancer, 3 days radiation, the radiation worsening her vision by aggravating a cataract, and now a gel glop of steroids floating like a squid black ink spill inside her eye for a couple weeks — in 3 months she can get the cataract removed and once healed get new glasses and see what she can see.

Here’s my latest monthly feature ion Medusa’s Kitchen.

All 246 poems published so far by Medusa’s Kitchen since October 2015 will make up my upcoming book “Where Never Was Already Is” from Crisis Chronicles Press. Medusa’s Kitchen resides in California, where publisher/editor Kathy Kieth posts a plethera of poets and artists every day of the year for years and years. My poems range from 1965 thru 2018. Once a month since I’ve sent her 10 fotod, 9 poems, and 1 song which she posted. It’s my 2nd best best gig so far after my publishing 21 issues of Artcrimes in 21 years (at a $20,000 loss).

Should be an interesting book because each month I’d pick the 9 new and or old poems that appealed to me most at the moment. I sent all the Medusa poems to John Burroughs (editor publisher of Crisis Chronicles Press) thinking since I’d selected the 14.5% of what I thought were among my best, he could take the best of my best for the book, but he read them and said “Let’s publish them all.”

And since they were spread over 27 months, we’ll have 27 chapters, each with its own mood and feel and Smith collage as cover art.

Really looking forward to this. It will become my public reading bible.

Poems by decade in upcoming “Where Never Was Already Is”
1960s – 2
1970s – 4
1980s – 9
1990s – 10
2000s – 29
2010s – 186
(seems be a discrepency in my counts… have to recheck).

3 recent posts up at WineDrunk Sidewalk where publisher/editor John Grochalsi is posting a political poem or art daily as long as small-handed but greedy-fingered Trump’s in office. Here are 2 poems, one collage.

Here’s today’s Februwary 5-poet poem-a-day-a-thon.

Booking the Dead

Early 1950’s mom gave birth
to child three
a continuous squawl
who cried 9 months and died.
Next morning before school
I looked in on him
saw a live baby unknown dead.
When I got home and was told
I tried to resee with new eyes
but it was after fact
dead baby gone
no goodbye.

33 years later 30 year-old child four
blows his brains out over
too much speed and alcohol
woman trouble
and having to carry his work partner
our failng father
whose polio shriveled leg is crumbling
from 50 years of brick, block, and stone.
Pappy’s call wakes me.
“Vince shot himself.”
“He’s okay isn’t he?”

Two year on Pappy died
wasted from missing his suicide son.
I flew out before he went
to see a 1/3 smaller once proud man
carried to the toilet
wiped when done.
He was good, kind, patient.
I loved him but left home at 17
so didn’t know him.
Mom called two weeks later
with he’s dead don’t come out
nothing to be done.

Moved her in with me
for final 16 years of her life.
When she went
she was home holding my hand
slipping in and out of consciousness
stopping breath
again and again for hours.

One unseen disappeared dead baby,
two long distance phone calls,
and one holding hand
slow taking her through passage…

Take door 4 every time.

 – 2.11.2018


daze late, dolor short

February 10th, 2018

Have gone from blogging daily to 3-4 times a month. Don’t seem to care. Oh well, this too will pass, the fortune cookie sez.

5 poets doing the Februweary poem-a-day-a-thon dues… Mary E. Weems, Lady K. Smith, Ray McNiece, JJ Stick, and me. I’m going to have to up my game to keep up.

Mary’s doing 4-6 poems a day, Ray’s doing 2 a day, and his poem today The People in Tomb X might be my favorite.

I’d post it but that might mess up his publishing options. Lots of places demand to be the original publisher of a poem. I say they have small vision… each publisher’s poetry audience is so small it don’t make sense to limit readership. Every one of the 246 poems in my upcoming book has been published before, sometimes several times.

Here are days 2 thru 10.

~ ~ ~

Common Scents

It’s not the fall,
it’s the sudden stop
that does you in.

But even more
it’s the not getting up
that keeps you down.

~ ~ ~

Entropy’s Rain

The Garden of Eden’s
now desert and blame
thorns in the roll
bugs in the hay
sweat on the skin
in down dirty game
but oh
so sweet is the sin

~ ~ ~

Mr & Mrs Sisyphus

I ask, Okay, whatta we got?
“Another day another rock.”
she replies.

Then softens, sighs,
“I’ll be your warm rock,
you can be my lizard”

~ ~ ~

Crimes & Punishment

1970 sitting in a Burger King in Baltimore,
my crime partner to be
who’s in debt and about to lose
his typesetting machines
which keep his ad agency going
turns to me and says
“I’m in real money trouble.
Maybe I should rob this place.”

Thinking it theoretical
I give him advice…
you don’t rob Burger Kings,
maybe go for a big box office movie.

Week later
he shows up at our apartment
where he’s been a lot lately
trying to seduce my wife
and shows me two large handguns
he borrowed from a friend.

We go to a deserted golf course
where we each shoot once into the night;
as I hand the gun back to him
it goes off
putting a bullet into the ground
between my feet.

Our first armed robbery next night
was a Seven-Eleven
in my rich boss’s neighborhood.

After the few customers left
and my partner paid for a pack of cigars
I pulled the gun from my belt,
the gun site catches in my beltloop
and it takes three tugs
so I point it at the clerk and say
“Don’t close the drawer”
just as he shuts it.

He reopens the register,
and gives me the money:

I tell him this isn’t enough,
to give me his wallet.

He hands it to me but I stare at it
and say, “I can’t take that, it’s yours,”
and hand it back.

He’s smiling as we run out,
dash through an alley
and up a muddy hill in the rain
where I fall on my face,
arms outstretched,
and the gun goes off
– again –
and misses my partner in front of me.

That makes two of us
I’ve missed so far.

Did one more robbery
at a Turkey Hill Minit market,
got pocketfuls of money
which the police mostly keep as they count
before locking us up for 10 1/2 months.

Fairly crime-free since
excepting grass, jaywalking, driving too fast,
and disrespecting authority,
which I see basic survival skills.

~ ~ ~


a paper stain,
an earache,

it fuels the tribal fire
to cybersize the moment,
the maybe,
the meant to,

makes the cracks crevice,
the blood to run,
the soul to seal,

best set of worry beads in town.

~ ~ ~

As light leaves
dark gains ground
recriminations creep

~ ~ ~

Unused Fortune

You can say sorry,
but stop and go

Night sleep
soothes brain static
to recharge wake

A hazy glow
as sun light mocked
by cold ice snow

We slip from if to if
as maybe mobilizes

Age and experience
bring calm wisdom
or else we just run down

The heart’s scorch marks
pried from flame
sell as souviners

A cosmic mouth trap
baited with book

The mountains look small
the desert large
but it’s the other way around

Cold creeps up feet
as slippers sleep
lost beneath couch

~ ~ ~

Our Way Highway

They exclaimed
“Guitar is not a jazz instrument”
but Django Reinhardt didn’t hear.

No fiddle neither till Stéphane Grappelli
missed their message.

Jimmy Smith’s jazz organ too.

Gotta love the rule makers
for they fart the true.

~ ~ ~

Conversation with Wife 40

While cutting her gnocchi dough roll
I mention it’s like sectioning a snake.
“You’re having sex with a snake? How is it?”
Good, talk about deep throat,
but hard to withdraw
what with those curved fangs wrong way in.
Fangs a lot.

“Boy, I’m tired today.”
Bicycle tired? Car tired? Truck tired?
“Cold medicine tired.”

There’s exit and there’s current it.
“Would either have a wild wild restroom?”

Trying to get me to start breakfast,
“How do you feel about bagels?”
Oh, I doono, they seem to be good dogs.

“I hate meetings.”
That’s why you’re a vegetarian.
“That’s not funny.”
Then why you smiling?
I’ve given you a few small smiles over the years,
and lots of groans.
“Does that make you a groan-up?”

Can’t eat the Nutella until we finish the Oldtella.
“You’re tellin me.”

“We need to get more incense.”
How about outsense?
“Or nonesense.”
Yes, we need more nonsense.
“Or common sense.”

You’re not supposed to drink out of your bowl.
“Oh don’t worry, it’s acceptabowl.”

~ ~ ~

So It Goes 2

Trudging through snow
with bad back,
pain walks tall

We’re born with wings,
then forget
so must regrow

Going over, leave tracks,
muss them walking back –
wind blows both away

~ ~ ~

Sisyphus Sandwich

Dawn dark the bread
life the seasoning
me the meat


super moon blood moon blue moon eclipse

February 1st, 2018

small 7″ irridescent piece by Mother Dwarf Smith

Super Blue Blood Moon Eclipse 2018

Went to watch eclipse of moon
but no – Cleveland cloud cover.

The annual Perseid meteor shower?
Cleveland cloud cover.

Comets? Cloud cover.
Solar eclipse? Cloud cover.

Sun? Moon? Stars? Blue?

Can’t even turn into a werewolf
cuz I can’t find the full moon.

Though did see horizontal lightning
in a violent Cleveland snow storm,

The black and blue cloud bounty
above this red beaten earth,

And always the sun dread
of sailor warning.

So so much for my once in 150 year
super moon blood moon blue moon eclipse.

In Cleveland, sky is occasional.

– Smith, 2.1.2018

Today Mary E. Weems, Lady K, JJ Stick, Ray McNiece and I start our February poem-a-day challange. Be good for me because I wrote only 3 poems last month instead of me usual 15-25.

3 decades ago over a 5 year period, the Ohio Arts Council rejected me as a collaborative installation artist, then rejected me as a poet, then rejected me as an artist, then told me they wanted to help me financially in publishing Artcrimes, so I submitted my 4th application – and they rejected me again saying I didn’t have enough outside financial support from others cuz I had been paying the entire [unlishing costs myself.

That last rejection hurt because I was unemployed and seriously needed help with the publication costs, which I knew I would get because it was Bob Fox’s request that I apply. Unfortunately he either quit the council or died before I got my application in.

I could try again as a fotografer for a 5th rejection, but I won’t because in essense they’re right — I am an attacker of the system, so why should the system support me?

Their rejecting me was entirely proper and logical.


living room roam

January 27th, 2018

Here’s a taste of our living room and its 55 pieces of art.

This place is messy, but creative. Will show the rest of the rooms over the next few days.

96% of art shown is by Lady K Smith, Mother Dwarf Smith, Cat Smith, and me.

The plastic covered doorways are to lower heating costs because we have electric basebord heat and one cannot afford to heat a 1600 sq ft apartment with baseboard heat so we heat one room at a time.

This is a working studio, so messier than most living spaces.


3 poems, 2 fotos, no song

January 4th, 2018


Meet me in the meat lane
I’ll be lambing up the chops

trying to chase the safe
and not the not

laminating lamentations
crying up the crop

slipping slide relations
in cut of guardian knot

never wanted to fuck my mother
didn’t want daddy dead

actually loved my younger brother
before he blew off his head

they’re all gone and yet remain
in my side of am

none of this of course germaine
to jiggle jelly jam

– Smith, 1.4.2018


To Be Continued…

You can befuddle a dog
by throwing a stick

You can confuse a cat
by dangling a string

And you can distract people
by mentioning money

– Smith, 1.3.2018

My poem Bad Bush George (for the CheneyBush Beast) is up at WineDrunk SideWalk:


3 for the road

January 1st, 2018



They say
save those who weep
and I reply yes

and no…

do save those who weep for others,
but let the selfweeps go.

– Smith, 12.29.2017


No One Is An Island

I land.
I sea.
I air.
I in-between.

– 12.31.2017


New Year Day One

Same earth, same sun,
same day night dance renamed
with new number lugging
old need for rent
old aches
new wrapped in old game
so Happy Same Thing With New Name
carrying mold debts
old wepts
and dead pets

We are what we are,
what we carry on

– Smith, 1.1.2018


mapping mobius

December 28th, 2017

Mapping Mobius

The acute angles
aren’t as attractive as they once were

Wife and I rise before dawn
to head start wend

Pain persists
but as they say, that’s life

We sit in dark and cold with cat
trying to remap wen

At least the coffee works,
first sip hot soothes old cold

We know now and new and soon
bring busted bits of when

Was is part of is,
now partitions next

We step in steps stepped before
on track unseen

Time inlaws to tomb,
and always wins

Mobius we go up and down
round around again

– Smith, 12.28.2017


2 leftover tidbits, 1 new tidbyte

December 27th, 2017

“Mingus Our Magic,” 4.5″ x 5″ x 1.5″
for Lady K., 12.24.2017

Piece in the fotos titled for poem I wrote Lady in our 10th week of relationship. I turned her onto Mingus, Yoko Ono, and Was (Not Was), and she turned me onto Gorillaz.



Mingus our magic
We mingle our meld both mode
And modality

– Smith, 11.21.2005


My December feature on Medusa’s Kitchen returns me to form – October and November were uneven, perhaps mindflux from shoulder surgery.


2 leftover tidbits, 1 new tidbyte:


Philosophy 168

We yearn for oneness
but since the Big Bang
we’re someness
underneath a box flap
pulling at the strings

– Smith, 12.22.2017


The Flu

One toilet
Two people
Four orifices

– Smith, 12.12.2017


Status Report 262

Cold and blow outside
but anti-inflammatory pills gone days ago
so I drive 8 blocks to hospital pharmacy

Leave ear warmer and scarf
cuz parking’s 2 minutes from door

But parking gate’s broken
won’t raise me in,
I’m waved away

I know this game,
Reality and I play all the time,
the let’s-mess-with-him
and see if he’s laugh or curse

Staying calm
I say Buddhist chant
bought 51 years ago in San Francisco for $6

Nam myoho renge kyo
right word, right thought, right action, right path

Drive halfway home to free street parking,
walk back through ice and howl and blow of cold

Get 90 1-a-day pills 8 cents each

Start back
staying inside long as I can
down deserted corridors of weekend hospital
the SLAP SLAP SLAP reminding me
my right sole is loose

(perhaps going to church 60 years ago
didn’t take as well as it might).

Check sole and see coat zipper undone
I re-zip it and the lower half unzips again

Pull coat over head,
force zipper unzip,
zip and watch unzip again

Snap snaps,
top 3 close,
bottom 2 broke
coat flops open catching cold

Hunched against biting wind
I scurry through storm
chanting and laughing

Reality’s joke,
but punchline’s mine

– Smith, 12.27.2017


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