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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 )

Back Alley

April 24th, 2014


Back Alley

People get lost in nooks,
the nooks and crooks
and sometimes the crannies too,
not granny crannies or booker nooks
or even crooked crook crooks
but kooks and cravings and unwashed bathings
and the flat footed vagaries of too cooked arteries
of oft farted smarteries
leaving lust in the dust with the rest of the rust
which cause such a fuss
for those of us before the fall
too tall to get small
in their nooks and untalleries calling unvoluntaries
to race for the rest instead of the best
such is life in the alley in the belly of the valley
in this test of the beast slouching from east
wondering away from the why.

– Smith, 4.24.2014

I published 21 issues of Artcrimes, an art/poetry journal, from 1986 to 2006 and will likely add issue 22 somewhere down the line . . . I lost $20,000 of my own money in the process.

I looked them up on, a rare books site, and found three listed for sale.

Artcrimes vol I no VI November 1988 – $75
although they seem quite confused about this one – publication date and number indicate me as editor of #6, but they list Chris Franke as editor and he was #7.

Language’smyths 17: An Artcrimes / 60 years of Poartry, 1995, edited by Lang and Smith – $46.70

Artcrimes #20: Sea of Forgetfulness 58 illustrations, 46 poems, 57 artists, 100 pages, 2002, edited by Wolfe and Smith – $10



The Bro Grin Tales

April 23rd, 2014


The Bro Grin Tales

I’m itchy she says as she turns and squirms.

You must be one of the seven dwarfs, I inform,
there’s Itchy and Squirmy and Dirty
and Oozy and Gooey.

We always wondered which was worse
Oozy or Gooey
but I choose Oozy
cuz who knows where that stuff comes from
it’s such a curse
for Gooey’s just sticky
while Oozy’s much worse.

Then there’s Doozy and Boozy both losing to floozies
who flutter their butter and churn em to utter
wild cries of the sexual in the midst of the mutual
on their mad nights of ritual.

– Smith, 4.23.2014



Out at the In-laws 9

April 22nd, 2014

Lady’s Dali

Out at the In-laws 9

I look at my notes
and there’s no poem here
except everything’s a poem
we’re all poems
coupled in free verse rhyme
like the time I dated a poem-poem girl
who dumped me when my palms grew hair
but that’s not fair
not here
not there
for here the near is Easter flair
out in in-laws’ lair
with charoset smear
on matzo crackers near
kosher ham and jam and beer
and most excellent potato salad
made like an Irish ballad
in Leprechaun home
which is closer to poem
but no fell jell which is swell
since Lady says tell
“big sloppy doggie walkie”
of Miles the dog of humongous mass
and tail-wagged ass
and largest heart of love in charge
in house of folk who drink and talk
and laugh and eat and fly and walk
most holidays and daze between
as life flows around in streams
which whirl in forge of poem when done
but missing much
especially such the sun bathed face
and fire sculpture burned
and piano played at stately pace
and madness of return
so no I know there’s no poem here
it’s all been done and gone
yet bend in near and shed a tear
for one lost song gone wrong

– Smith, 4.22.2014


Sober 23

April 21st, 2014

Sober 23

One more gone, go one more.
See what tomorrow has in store.

– Smith, 4.21.2014

23 years sober, starting 24.

Drank myself to death April 21 1991 and woke in intensive care. Three days later I rose from my dead and walked home to alcoholessness.

Alcohol was the hardest drug I ever beat . . . over the next nine years I quit NyQuil, cocaine, speed, pills, needles and everything else except for coffee, grass, and the occasional magic mushroom.

Still stride the fine fusion of self delusion, but wriggle in its grasp.

excerpt from my bio Stations of the Lost, a True Tale of Armed Robbery, Stolen Cars, Outsider Art, Mutant Poetry, Underground Publishing, Robbing the Cradle, and Leaving the Country by Smith & Lady, The City Poetry Press, 2012:

One night in April 1991 watching the movie Mortal Thoughts downtown with Mom, I started swallowing small amounts of liquid, which was odd because I wasn’t drinking anything. An alcohol induced ulcer at the base of my esophagus had hemorrhaged and I was swallowing my own blood. I came home scared and didn’t tell Mom.
While Mom was downstairs in her space, I lay in my loft for fourteen hours vomiting blood into a bedside bucket, passing out, coming back, all the time my little computer brain computing, saying, This is serious, you’re going to have to go to the hospital. But hospitals meant money and I was poor with no health insurance. I’d vomited blood the previous December for four hours and managed to stop it through will or luck so I thought maybe I could stop it this time, too.
For the first six hours I thought, Right now I can get up and drive to the hospital.
A couple hours later, more lost blood, more unconsciousness, I thought, Well now I can take a bus to the hospital because I’m too weak to drive anymore.
Later it became, Now I have to call a cab.
Each time I’d start to lose consciousness from blood loss, I’d think, Is this it? But each time I worried about Mom who still needed my help and company, so I came back. All through this, I collected the blood into the bucket and wondered, What art piece can I make with a bucket of my own blood? Buckets of human blood aren’t easy to come by, so this was a seriously unique art supply.
Finally I couldn’t do anything but weakly call over and over until I woke Mom. She called EMS. I was too heavy for them to carry down from the loft because I weighed ninety pounds more then from all the wine and food. I rolled out of my waterbed, crawled on my belly across the floor and slid like a seal head first down the loft stairs where they put me onto a sling and carried me to the ambulance, where I immediately disappeared into unconsciousness. When I returned to this reality after an indeterminate period of time I looked at the nurse and croaked, “Wow, nice to be back,” and threw up a huge amount of gelatinous blood. It looked like pre-chewed Jell-O quivering in her tray.
Oh, I was gone. I mean, I left my body. Before—in the fourteen hours of vomiting blood—I would occasionally lose consciousness and there’d be a nether region where I was aware I might not come back and then I’d worry about Mom and return. But down in the ambulance I zoomed right past that point. I was gone. When I regained sight, it was literally, Wow, I’m back, and it felt good. I was glad.
I officially quit drinking in intensive care the third time they shoved the tube up my nose and down my throat. The first two times I gagged the tube back out with my throat muscles. I decided right then that if I lived I would never have a tube shoved up my nose again due to alcohol, and I haven’t drank since.
The docs dripped six units of blood into me. After the fifth unit one doctor turned to the other two and said, “Where’s it going?” A friend inquired later if I knew what type blood I’d received. I said, “No but the next time I went downtown I bought a five hour boxed set of James Brown music.”
Back home, Mom dumped my blood bucket because the rot smelled bad. Everyone’s an art critic.
After I stopped drinking Mom admitted to me, “It was so bad living with your drinking I was thinking of moving out.”
“Where would you have gone?” I asked.
“I had no place to go,” she said, “but I couldn’t have stayed with you the way you were.”

I got a call from Dick Head while still in the hospital. “I can’t drink anymore or I’ll die,” I told him.
“Then why don’t you die!” he screamed. “I’d rather die than not drink.”


Mobius Wheel

April 20th, 2014

Good Dawn to you, happy Easter Ishtar Eostre and 420 day too.

Mobius Wheel

Back in my gee williker days
I thought the natural order of things was
be born, learn, play,
go to school, work long while, retire,
sit around smoking peace pipe
culling past for truth in chance
condensing knowledge to wisdom
which one shared
if ever another dropped in in need.

But no, t’aint so
it just keeps going
life don’t stop
it hops the ops
happens the stance
dues the done did in do again
peoples things and things people
keeping score by asking more
buying store until fun done
and we head to the great no know beyond
which might be cool or total fool
or none of the above
but until said sum done
rent needs paid
pay needs spent
work sun up
work sun down
run range arrange around and round
look for sage but find a clown
yet naying nope and seeking yup
still bestest bet for ending loop
so live in hope
learn to cope the cruel not cured
keep the buddhayou preferred

– Smith, 4.20.2014

the crack in the cosmic egg


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