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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,
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Archive for September, 2011

Dancing with the devil

Thursday, September 29th, 2011

Self sandwich – foto by Smith

Recorded Prince Valium as a song today. Rough and rocky jam session with multiple false starts, but I like what we finally ended up with.

There are now 30 Smith/Apartment One songs on

Voice and lyrics by me; with music, mix and recording by Peter Ball of Apartment One.

I’m happy with this one.

Dancing with the devil – foto by Smith


The Ice Cream Cone of Perception

Thursday, September 29th, 2011

The Ice Cream Cone of Perception – fotos by Smith


Soon to be the Valium blues

Wednesday, September 28th, 2011

Finished – foto by Smith

Here are the lyrics for a song Peter Ball of Apartment One and I will be recording tomorrow. If it works out, I’ll post it Friday.

It’s a weird process because I have no idea what music Peter will play since he makes it up as we go; and neither he nor I have any idea how or what I’ll say/sing because I won’t know until I hear his music. And it’s a one-time thing because he can’t repeat what he’s done since it’s all whim and whisk . . . the best we can do is add a couple tracks after to flesh in the valleys and hide my mistakes.

Prince Valium

Prince Valium rides
my valley of naught
Soothing inside
Insidious thought

He eases the reins
Of vicious jerks
Smoothing the pain
Of obnoxious quirks

   High slow Diazepam
   Seize me into slow
   Mow my mental diagram
   Make my innards glow

With head getting lighter
Larger and tighter
Comes bits of laughter
Encouraging after

My dragging is slain
Slow slowing down
Much less to explain
And a lot more clowns

   High ho Diazepam
   Riding to the rescue
   Skewering social sham
   Remaking inner skew

I’m sorry you’re sad
Though not really
I’ve goodened my bad
Made serious silly

I know going up
Means coming down
But temporary yup
Way worth next frown

   Doing dat Diazepam
   Dancing with the devil
   Being me as I am
   Knowing I’m not evil

Sometimes it’s best
To blow out your pipes
It serves as a test
For the rest of your gripes

But this this ain’t now
And that now won’t when
To my body I must bow
And get on with Zen ken

   So goodbye Prince Valium
   Thanks for the ride
   I appreciate the value
   Of the lessons inside

— Smith, 9-28-2011

If u take me back – foto by Smith


Twenty years ago day

Tuesday, September 27th, 2011

Fool moon green man with red rose – foto by Smith

Junkie Business

I’m losing my last two crutches:
and marijuana

In the old days
I could have coffee
after dinner.

You know,
this junkie business
is for younger bodies

You keep doing it,
and pretty soon,
you end up like Keith Richards,
falling out of trees
and landing on your head.

— Smith with Lady K, 2006 (in Marrakech, Morocco)

I’m losing my junkie status.

No, that’s not true; I lost my junkie status over a decade ago. It’s just now I’m accepting it.

This year was legal prescription drug heaven. And hell.

During my hip replacement in May, they put me to sleep with Propofol. I said, “Isn’t that the drug they killed Michael Jackson with?” They answered, “Yes, but we’re much better at it.” I waited to judge its effects, but there’s not a single memory between being told what it was and waking afterward.

When they took me to recovery, the nurse injected me with Dilaudid, and as soon as it hit my system I smiled real big at the nurse and went, “Wow, now I know why this was Elvis Presley’s favorite drug.” I know it sold on the street 15 years ago for $50 per pill because I bought one, although it was probably counterfeit because it didn’t work.

They moved me up to rehab and gave me two Percocet pills every four hours, the drug Jerry Lewis became addicted to. I can see why — it do kill pain.

I came home two days later with 90 legal Percocets to control the pain, plus I had another 60 scripted Vicodins left over from pre-operation pain management — and they both very effectively dulled my MAJOR bone-on-bone torn-flesh sawed-bone agony.

And earlier in the year I got a Valium prescription to help me handle me as I was trying to keep calm helping Lady through her reality attack.

But I’m no longer as young and vigorous and healthily stupid as I once was; and while I seriously appreciated the pain relief, I did not like the logy, thick, dull dense body high; in fact the “high” was no longer a high, just something to put up with. And of course serious pain medication creates serious constipation problems, so you gotta choose your misery cuz you can’t have it both ways.

This morning I foolishly drank two cups of super strong Costa Rican pan made cowboy coffee and my body started screaming “why did you swallow so much speed?” So I dug out my prescription Valium, took the last pill, then swallowed the Valium dust in the bottom of the bottle that had accumulated from cutting each pill in half (which probably equaled a whole nuther pill) and I got a body high so high my mind said “No. Enough. I do not like this. THIS IS NOT ANY FUN.”

So I’m finally biting the bullet, giving up coffee, foregoing any pills unless absolutely mandated by the doctor, while still wishing for the one drug I still love – grass . . . which of course I cannot afford here in America. It cost me $30 for a quarter pound of top-shelf Kind/Chronic smoke during my 15 months in Mexico, which I purchased every month, plus a couple grams of hash and opium — all that up here would cost me over a thousand a month . . . probably way over.

I’m also cutting way down on sugar, which is another poison drug; fortunately we’ve already cut out eating meat most days.

So, welcome to reality Mister Smith. Although I’ll be clean and sober, I’ll never be “straight” — I was bent before I ever did drugs and alcohol, and shall remain strange after.

I guess it’s about time — I’ve had a 44 year run on drugs, maybe 20 on alcohol before I drank myself to death in 1991 and woke in intensive care — haven’t had a sip since.

Folks wonder about my art and poetry and drugs. I wrote poetry and made art way before I ever took a drink or did drugs; I wrote poetry and made art all through drinking and drugs; did the same during my mostly drugless 14 months living in Europe; and will easily do so now.

It’s time. I’m tired of being mini-me; time to become maxi-me.

Oh the adventures I’ve had along the way.

Oh the adventures that await.

Life is good. Loving Lady even better. Having my health the icing on the sugarless cake sans coffee. (I’ll still toke ganja at parties though, as long as I’m not buying.)

This all is slightly humorous because I wrote a drug song this morning just as the Valium was nicely kicking in; we’ll record Thursday and if it’s any good, I’ll blog it Friday. It’s titled Prince Valium . . . maybe I’d best re-title it Goodbye Prince Valium.

I’ve known for twenty years this day was coming, and I fought it every day of the way.

“When you’re headin’ for the border lord
You’re bound to cross the line”
(Kris Kristofferson – Border Lord) – fotos by Smith


House Un-American Blues Activity Dream by Richard & Mimi Farina

Monday, September 26th, 2011

Be courteous – foto by Smith

House Un-American Blues Activity Dream
by Richard & Mimi Farina (Joan Baez’s sister)

Why does the sign always say Rite-Aid?
Maybe I wanna go to Wrong-Aid for once.

Bummer bumper – foto by Smith


Equinox, roosters, trains

Sunday, September 25th, 2011

Suspended – foto by Smith


Outside our window
rooster crowing
far train blowing
inside my heart

— Smith, 9-25-2011

drive on – foto by Smith


Werewolf blues

Friday, September 23rd, 2011

Werewolf blues – foto by Smith

Wrote some lyrics yesterday morning, called a friend, and we recorded it as a song a couple hours later — thanks to his musical abilities.

I love this instant internet age, or certain aspects of it at least . . . I’m still trying to figure out how all these spammers found out I have a small penis and why they’re so eager to enlarge it — are they trying to help, or are they just real lonely?

The song is Sell Your Soul to the Talk Show Host; it’s the first title at

There’s a glitch at the 3.5 minute mark — it sounds like the tape ate part of the song, hiccupped awhile, and went on.

It’s not a glitch — I lost my way vocally, and Peter claims he messed up musically as well (although he sounds good to me), so he chopped 2 minutes out of it, then used the glitch as a segue because he liked my ending and wanted to include it.

(Words and voices me; all music, mixing, recording Peter Ball)

Jump for joy – foto by Smith


Sell Your Soul to the Talk Show Host

Thursday, September 22nd, 2011

Soul fire – foto by Smith

Explanation for so-so song lyric at end of blog:

Got up early today to see my wife off to work. She goes into the office one or two days a week, works the remaining 5-6 days from home.

We had a good, close, pleasant, tender morning with her drinking the coffee I made for her while the cat wound round our ankles purring.

Then she left and I started reading the news and began slipping into this dark place wondering why humans in power are so mean, thoughtless, greedy, shallow, racist, and basically excrement encrusted assholes.

So I wrote a song I hope Peter Ball and I can record today. Took 5 minutes to write . . . of course it’s simplistic and shallow so maybe my quality out equals the time I put in.

But before I blog it, I keep thinking how Peter Ball of the band Apartment One keeps talking about he and I forming a band. I always say no, but it could happen in 2012 after March since I have a full plate till then — have to get my memoir published online by my 66th birthday in March, and Lady and I have an important (I hope) two-month two-room art show to prepare for February/March 2012.

I just had a fantasy flash for a group name — Elderwine . . . since we’re all so old (although now I taste it, it sounds too tame a name). It’d be odd to have a band with such a bad singer (me), except bad singer implies singing and even that is beyond me. But I can do the blues growl, and I do write fine lyrics — and as far as the “singing” goes, I can get better, wiser, wilier by listening closely to all the great bad blues singers from the past, so I’d still be just as bad but a lot cooler about it.

Anyway, here’s the unpleasant shallowness I just wrote . . . at least it has a positive turnaround starting with the 3rd chorus.

Sell Your Soul to the Talk Show Host

I tell you now
I tell you true
Most what you know
Just ain’t true

Fair is farce
Justice slim
The man’s an arse
Who likes to skim

  So walk like a capitalist
  Grunt like a pig
  Lie like a factualist
  While rules you rig

They’ll steal your soul
They’ll flux your when
Then skin your now
Rewrite your then

Depenny your pocket
Slip bills from your fold
Tell you to fake it
Abuse you when old

  Yes walk like a capitalist
  Grunt like a pig
  Lie like a factualist
  While rules you rig

So sell your soul
To the talk show host
Crawl belly low
To butter your toast

Slip to slime
Sink to skim
Grovel in grime
Dabble in dim

  Or, talk like an activist
  Walk like you’re big
  Live the immaculate
  Help yourself dig

Stroll on with honor
Look in your eye
Measure your manner
Learn way of why

Give of yourself
Help one another
Empty your shelf
Of your unmatter

  Go court the calculist
  Break down your prig
  Become the ejaculate
  And the joy it brings

— Smith, 9.22.2011

Heart soar – foto by Smith


A Crooked Man

Tuesday, September 20th, 2011

Stuff – foto by Smith

A Crooked Man

There was a crooked man
not politician or banker
nor CEO or priest or moral shanker
(though all fine crooks in each their manner)
but a simple guy with crooked sight
who thought fair meant fair
and right meant right
no matter how rich or big or tall
the same truths applied to all
if A were rule for man with penny
A must abide for man with many
if B is wrong for one with naught
it’s just as wrong for one with lots
as poor pay tax and serve and fight
so should rich add their might
and give to keep this going going
this very world they seem to be whoring
using lawyers politicians guns and money
not to mention TV and honey
to dull our minds to take our score
demanding we must pay far more
so wealth in growth can glow galore
they say less more than we deserve
think we’d be happy we’re not tempted
by all they buy with money exempted
and they’re probably right
in Zen light
for stuff is trouble
stuff takes space
stuff grows like fungus in dark dank place
stuff needs storage stuff needs safe
stuff sucks storer stuff takes place
stuff becomes bad bit breath
stuff stiffs stuff
stuff self-smit
so bet on tortoise
forget the hare
stuff is rigor mortis
stufflessness free air
winning is failing
failing success
the meek shall inherit
one hell of a mess

— Smith, 9.20.2011

Space is available – foto by Smith


2 to me Lady

Monday, September 19th, 2011

R Lady – foto by Smith

Weather Report

Whether rain or slime
my love for you will remain
in or outside time

~ ~ ~

Me She Me

“I need to gargle.”
“Does that make you a gargoyle?”
“No, I’m male, more garguyle.
You have to be female to be a gargoyle.”

Art Lady – foto by Smith


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