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Bio


the bad old daze


breakfast plate in mountain village - foto by smith

more shame from the past - my journal entry from april 4, 1973 - back when i was miserably married to robin redbreast, unhappy with my life and her infidelities, and still massively depressed 2 and a half years out of prison. this will be the last journal entry - i’ve read enough of my old life for awhile.

april 4, 1973

I’m becoming uptight when Robin touches me lately. I find my self becoming tensely irritated when driving along she lays her hand along side my inner thigh and inevitably moves up to my crotch. She also makes throatal noises she believes to be sexual but again turn me way off. It is difficult to live with a girl whom one does not respect intellectually or morally, whom one does not love, know, or care to know.

I shamed myself yesterday. The girl upstairs is a dealer and she left for Florida for a week a few days ago. So I, having a key to her place, went in to look for her stash. I found her bag with almost no difficulty in the window closet. In the bag were four ounces of grass and a black book with sale records and $140. So, I opened up the plastic baggies of dope & took a little out for me from each bag, put the rest & the money back. I went downstairs with about $4.00 worth of bad grass ( I know it’s bad cuz tis the same as last which was bad – in fact, all of her dope has been weak or medium mediocrity. Then I felt so bad that I stole that I went back up and put it all back. The worst of it all is that I wasn’t even tempted to steal the $140, but I stole $4 worth of bad grass. That is sick. I am sickening. Moralistic poet steals. To make it worse I once again onaned this a.m. Robin wants me sexually 2-3 times per day – I frequently find masturbation more attractive because I don’t have to lie next to me afterwards, lying, “I love you.” Lizard shit. As of now, no more masturbation – she would say it was a waste of the creative force. No more soda pops. No more Gino’s hamburgers. No more candy bars. On we go.


cracked dinner plate - foto by smith
Apr 05 2008 04:07 pm | Bio | No Comments »

her, me, and young me him


oaxaca city graffiti - foto by smith

lady’s reading my private journals. 1968 - 1974 so far. i was 22 thru 28 years old then. she’s 35 now. sounds like The Time Traveler’s Wife (a good book). lately there’s three of us in the room - her, me, and young-me. kinda kinky.

lady’s mining them for excerpts we can include in our badman manuscript.

a lot happened those years - i was kicked out of the u.s. naval academy february 1968 for smoking grass, and two weeks later was living in a drug house in baltimore dropping acid and shooting speed. my journals document it all - including the year before, the 5 years of, and the year after my first marriage to robin red-breast. lady knows more about my past than i do those 7 years. which is odd since the first journal entry was 4 years before she was conceived..

i don’t like my younger me. he was sneaky, sly, shallow, selfish. lady calls him “duplicitous.”

but he did know how to suffer. here’s a heavy excerpt i wrote a month after he married.

June 15, 1969

I trust a person completely until something shakes me and then I’m never sure… after our first year together I trusted Robin completely – never once did ever doubt her… never once until after we were engaged and I called her, found her gone and half an hour later found her at Joe’s, caught her just as she was going up to his apartment. She said he only wanted to talk about his problems – she finally convinced me that it was on the up and up which is a lousy cliché and I drove home after she said she’d be about 15 minutes… she was up there over an hour and a half finally coming out and convincing me that for 90 minutes she sat and listened and he never touched her… I finally dropped the whole thing and actually forgot about it – until… until… wonder how many more untils… until on our honeymoon I got in bed after she was asleep whereupon in her sleep she snuggles up to my warm body and sighs “Joe, Joe” which sent me through hell… finally drop that only to come back and hear her say “Joe this…” and “Joe that…” everyday – I would call from Hershey sometimes and she would be out or she would promise to wash her hair on my night out of town only to come back to find she hadn’t done anything, nothing except maybe my mind thinks seeing Joe… and now today she says Joe calls and needs to talk with her about his problems – it doesn’t hit me until later this is sposed to be my night out of town… I wonder if I’m upsetting her little schedule by staying in town tonight… perhaps my mind is working a little over actively in filling in the blanks – yet, I do know she has called him often before we were married and he has called her as well. I do know that on one of my out of town nights she went riding with him until way after midnight – I do know she kissed him one night – I do know I caught her at Joe’s apartment one night when I wasn’t sposed to know she was there and I do know she was up in his apartment from a little before midnight until one thirty and it was just the two of them… I also know that ofttimes the most guilty circumstances arise out of the most innocent occasions and I know a suspicious mind finds always more to be suspicious about and that if my doubts continue I could finish us – I know also that I keep forgetting about Joe and my suspicions but somehow she keeps bringing up his name in such a way as to inflame my doubts all over again… while I’m sitting here writing she keeps saying how wonderful it is that I’m home tonight and I don’t believe her… I will later though because I want to – I want to believe she’s faithful even if she isn’t – what I don’t know can’t hurt me and what I do know can’t hurt me but what I suspect may destroy me… soon I’m going to tell her I’m staying overnight in Hershey and am coming back instead and telling her I finished up by chance – and I hope I catch Joe up here or her down there because I will beat Joe almost to death and don’t know what I will do with her.


oaxaca city graffiti - foto by smith
Apr 05 2008 12:50 am | Bio | No Comments »

May 5, 1968

Smith’s uncomfortable with his younger self from the journals. I’m posting these entries because it’s the 40th anniversary of 1968. This is a raw perspective of the times following the death of MLK and of the emerging consciousness of his generation.

      Lady

May 5, 1968 Journal Entry

      Whew, I’m out of breath and a little dizzy… we just quite briskly walked back from April’s up on 29th. I’m still speeding, but the ceiling right now is low… but, who cares? About 11:30 we all left here to walk up to April’s… we are Otts, Gary, John, Nigel, and me or myself… tonight I could really say we “is” because when we sped together we honestly become one… a unity. We started out for April’s and went up Calvert Street – not the best section of life. A Negro threw a stone at us and broke a window… God, I was for a moment a racing flash of terror… anyway then four more Negroes started chasing us trying to fight… who wants to fight? I’m usually one who enjoys a small fight, but not on speed… we were all so passive. Fortunately a police car drove by and the Negroes ran away… Otts spoke for all of us when he said he wasn’t mad, the colored boys just didn’t understand – they didn’t want to fight us, they wanted to lash out at what the white society has and they don’t. I don’t care what color a man is… I care what he is and believes… and if he’s bigger than I am I’ll believe what he wants… maybe.
      Spiders… Sunday on a picnic a midshipman friend’s of mines’ girl named Elaine and called Joe or Lynn killed two small spiders. Genrich laughingly repeated a saying I had never heard, something about every time you kill a spider it will rain. And it really rained. Two spiders ruined the whole picnic. Robin [Smith’s future wife] asked why God would bother to put such ugly creatures on earth… it’s funny, I was going to tell you why, but I am not going to get into why God does anything… I have more than I can handle figuring out myself, and I’ve yet to start on the why of the world – except I know that once I really know myself I will know the world… even if I can ever tell the world why I can’t understand myself I will have helped.
      John’s beads sparkle in this tremulous light… the sparkling drops of captive crystal play hide-n-seek among the glistening white satin of his gypsy shirt… sash about his waist, sloppy pants, rings flashing from his slender fingers… a perfect gypsy complete with the thick black of some nightly campfire as the hair framing the complete openness of his face… look deep into your crystal ball o John the gypsy and play the answers on your mystical mandolin. John the Gypsy… hail to thee.
      Right now I’m heavy and shouldn’t write much more… Nige just called this book “a diary when time isn’t”… actually it’s a diary for my future so when ever I develop enough to write my novel I’ll have the impressions with me.
      I just saw the tourniquet in the bathroom and realized I’ve never described mainlining. You start out by getting real tight in the gut with anticipation and a large amount of fear… then your conductor (I use that for lack of a better word) roughly measures out a dose of methedrine… he stops and asks you if you want more and damn but it’s hard to say no. The crystal is dissolved in about 1 c.c. of water in a sterilized pop bottle cap… the mixture is then boiled and drawn up through a filtering piece of cotton into a hypodermic needle. All the air is removed from the hypo and the tourniquet is applied to your bicep. You clench your fist as the crook of your elbow is cleaned with alcohol soaked cotton… the conductor chooses a vein and inserts that goddamn frightening needle into your vein… he draws a little blood out to make sure he’s hit your mainline and then slowly empties the needle into you as you watch hypnotically.

Apr 04 2008 01:42 pm | Bio | No Comments »

April 8, 1968


Smith, 1966

April 8, 1968 Journal Entry

      Today is the third day of race riots in Baltimore following the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King. We have 6,000 Federal troups, 1900 National Guard, and 2400 police on duty patroling the streets in a weak attempt to stop the looting and damage caused by the Negroes. Saturday night I saw 5-10 cops per block, several fires, burglar alarms… cops racing the wrong way down one way streets, screeching to a halt then dashing into alleys with guns drawn… National Guard on every corner – just kids in uniform who loved the initial excitement but are now too tired and dirty to even wonder whether they’ll get shot or bombed or just beaten up. It’s all strangely interesting. Couple of kids in guard uniforms just asked us for some booze… city is dry because of riots… told them we didn’t deal in alcohol, we dealt in something else. One asked then for a nickle bag. Hated to turn him down, but he might of turned us in. Shame something as fun and educational and harmless as grass or hash is illegal… narc, narc… just ate another strip of hash… tastes so damnably bad.
      Bought $30 worth of groceries today – so expensive to eat. Two large bags of $30 groceries will last couple day, yet a small $65 half ounce of hash lasts much longer, lasts happier, and is lighter.

Apr 03 2008 10:51 pm | Bio | No Comments »

Dead Brother Letter


Smith & Cat

This is a letter from Smith’s dead brother, Cat, circa December 1973.

Poor Demented Soul,

Just received your letter on my arrival home and being in a mellow semi conscious drug induced state, I took it upon myself to answer you, since I will be stuck home for an otherwise unbearable period. Well, I don’t know how you managed to do it, but your letter came in one of my good periods. Everything has been going really smooth for the last week and it seems it shall continue so for an extended period of time hence. Starting last Friday, I am going to give you the long, boring story of my up period, just for something to do, so sit back and relax.

OK, last Friday I went over to a friend’s house to smoke some of his pot. Well after having smoked about a third of his bag, someone showed up with some home made pink THC and I bought two and dropped them. Since then I haven’t been able to get away from it. Saturday I did another hit and a half, and was smoking a lot of pot, when someone gave me a yellow jacket, which I took. Still later on that eve, someone came over with some hash and some brown California junk and we rolled up a joint of hash and a joint of junk and I snorted up some junk. I don’t know how, but I continued to party through the night until three a.m. upon which I promptly fell asleep and slept soundly until eleven that next morn when lo and behold the man with the junk came back over and passed around another joint with junk in it, then left for better things. Well, me and three friends proceeded to lay in bed until seven that night when we decided that we had not done nothing but get high all day, so someone laid a half a hit of that THC on me and I did it and went home and passed out

Monday I stayed home from school and recuperated. Tuesday I skipped school and went over to my friend’s house and got some more THC and dropped a hit. Then we picked up a chick who had some orange barrel acid and I did a hit of that and proceeded to party ‘til twelve that night, upon which time I went home and went to bed and laid awake and tripped all night.

Wednesday I went on a field trip to an Oldsmobile factory and my friend Rick laid a hit of THC on me, which made the trip a bit more enjoyable. That night I went to a Halloween party and dropped another hit and a half of THC and partied until two that eve, then went home and passed out again. Thursday I went to school and collected money from people who wanted some THC.

Friday I and Rick skipped school and went out to my friends house and dropped a hit of THC, bought seven more and went and gave it to the people who wanted some, making a couple dollars off the deal and picking up more money for more THC. We then drove over to Big Rapids and picked up eight more hits and gave them to the people and dropped another hit and a half. I then bought two more hits which I did a hit and a half of, and partied until three o’clock this morn when I passed out. Then, this morn, to wind up my story, I got up, and smoked seven joints of real good weed and am now sitting home, typing. Later on tonight I am going to go back out and party. So, things have been going alright for me.

Now, OK, now, on with other things. I don’t quite know when I am coming out, but I plan on finding out soon.

Well, it is now Thursday, only but a week and a half since I last wrote. I got a letter from Steve R. today, Mother came bursting into my room, demanding I open it and I had just lit up a joint. Well, she didn’t notice and I am finishing the roach, which just went out. I did not attend school today for no other explainable reason than I just didn’t feel like going, which is my basic excuse lately. I have missed 30 days of school out of 77 days. Now, I can’t figure out if this record is good or bad, ‘cause that is a lot of school to be missing, but every day I have missed, I have been high, and been invited to get high at other, later dates. O well, I’m going to quit missing so much school.

I at this precise moment don’t know much about me coming out there, but I do know more than I did last time. I can tell you the date I shall be leaving here, which is the 21st of December, and I have to be back around January 2nd, and I can tell you I will probably bring out some acid when I come, and I can tell you things like I want to come and I need to come and I’m going to come, but right now I cannot tell you how I am going to come. You see, the parents won’t loan me the car, though I am still working on it, but they say I am not experienced enough in snow and city driving. Rick, the friend I was planning on coming out with just got busted for shoplifting yesterday, so he won’t be able to come and neither will his truck. Now, I really don’t have the money for a bus, and I don’t want to take one anyway, not with the dope and money I may have with me. I am at this precise moment working on another friend named Dave, who has a car, and even a tape deck and tapes, but I don’t know if he could go and even if he could, it would probably cost ninety dollars for gas out there and back, which is forty five dollars a piece, which I might be able to swing, if all my plans work out.

You see, I am now telling people if they want a bag of that dope I had a while ago, it would cost them 15 dollars an ounce fronted to me by the 21st. Many people are interested, so I may make enough to come out there and come back from that deal. Now, the real money making deal comes next for both of us. Do you think there would be a big enough market for acid that you could sell two hundred in a month? You see, a friend of mine wants to send one quantity down soon and one quantity down with ‘em, and they both would be fronted to us and would cost 60 dollars a piece. Now, I was also asked to ask you, what else would sell down there I will give you a list of kinds and approximate prices acid, 40$ a hundred, mescaline, 40$ a hundred (organic runs a bit more) Quaaludes run 60$ a hundred, speed: crosses 15 a hundred, Christmas trees, 30 a hundred, and there may be some blue Mexican speed that is supposed to come up from Arizona and if it does, I will bring at least a hundred down with me. Heroin is too expensive to mention and coke is 50 a gram. PCP or THC pills run 40 a hundred and crystal runs 50 a gram. Psilocybin mushrooms run about 60 an ounce and sell down here for three dollars a gram. Now, you’ll have to add on 20$ to every price for the person who would be fronting this to me. Well enough with that inane garbage, on to bigger and bagger things. . I am very much in favor of Europe, but I must include Spain. O well, that is the extent of criticism. Once in my life, I want to legally buy and drop acid. You with me there. Well I am going to include a couple of my latest poems written only in my journal, which I am really enjoying muchly o well, on with the menial lines of naught, first, a couple of nothing poems and lines.

Love,

Cat

Smith’s journal entry, December 22, 1973

Brother Vince should and most likably will arrive in Bmore in about 3 hours or so it being at this particular import in time 10:27 p.m. night. He called last night down enough not to come. We sent him $45 for to bring a little bit of LSD but he in giving it to his dealer lost it. The money is unpleasant but the loss and lack of acid be worse. But, that’s the way it was, the was what is. So what else did I have to write of? I’m broke as per usual. Was in McDonald’s glorious hamburger haven tonight and noticed they had an Xmas tree with the holy three beneath it. So, I reached over and stole their ceramic blonde haired blue eyed Jesus from right out of his ceramic crib & put him in my pocket. Fear not his bodily absence for he is arisen.

Apr 01 2008 10:55 pm | Bio | No Comments »

CHING

reflection of Jeff Chiplis’s neon art
photos by Lady K

CHING

weird to be here,
perhaps I oversteer…

after all, I’m not indispensible
whatever the majority decides
it’s all up to you
nothing is set in stone
let me know if it’s
ok or not

keep your computer safe
you must be logged in to do that
don’t mind our police

lady k

more Chiplis art

reflections of Chiplis art

astro man at my art opening (friday)

Smith reading from On The Road at the
Bookstore on W. 25th

Oct 21 2007 06:17 am | Art and Being and Bio and Poetry and cleveland | No Comments »

I’m a little egg

Lady K, 1976?

From my writing project:

That night, Mom and I took our bath together. I liked this time with her. When Grandma gave me a bath, she was in a hurry, and rubbed my face too roughly with the washcloth. I still feel the harsh washcloth in Grandma’s fingers, scraping my ears. But Mom lingered in the tub.

The water smelled like iron and sulfer. It was from the well. The bathtub was yellow and smooth. I sat between Mom’s stubbly legs.

Mom layed her head back and closed her eyes. I leaned against her thigh. I felt the washcloth float against my skin. I grabbed it and squeezed water out. It trickled and plinked. I put the washcloth in my mouth and sucked it. It tasted like soapy iron.

Mom started to sing an Irish tune in her clear, soft sweet soprano. The steamy air in the bathroom contributed to intimacy, made it a world enclosing just Mom and me. Her voice was a reedy instrument.

When Johnny comes marching home again,
Hurrah! Hurrah!
We’ll give him a hearty welcome then
Hurrah! Hurrah!
The men will cheer and the boys will shout
The ladies they will all turn out
And we’ll all feel gay when Johnny comes marching home.

With your drums and guns and guns and drums, hurroo,hurroo
With your drums and guns and guns and drums, hurroo,hurroo
With your drums and guns and guns and drums,
The enemy nearly slew ye
Oh my darling dear, Ye look so queer
Johnny I hardly knew ye.

Ye haven’t an arm, ye haven’t a leg, hurroo, hurroo
Ye haven’t an arm, ye haven’t a leg, hurroo, hurroo
Ye haven’t an arm, ye haven’t a leg,
Ye’re an armless, boneless, chickenless egg,
Ye’ll have to be put with a bowl out to beg,
Oh Johnny I hardly knew ye.

I felt a constriction of my throat, and my eyes burned like I was going to cry. I didn’t know why, but I loved that song, and I loved her voice, her passion in singing it. I thought about the chickenless egg and the bones, about the drumstick I ate for dinner.

“I’m a little egg,” I thought.

“Do you know what the song means?”

“No. I like it.”

“It’s about war. People kill each other in war. Governments send our young men to fight wars and they die, or they come back without arms or legs.”

“Why do they do this?”

“Because some people are bad. There are good and bad people. There are good and bad wars, too. But all war is horrible for the people who are in it. Grandpa was in a war.”

“World War II.”

“That was a good war. We fought against the Nazis in Germany. The Nazis wanted to kill all the Jewish people. Grandma’s Jewish, and her brother died fighting in the war. But there was a bad war just a couple years ago. Your Daddy Wayne wouldn’t fight in it because it was a bad war. That was Vietnam. I met your Daddy when he was hiding out from the war.”

“Why was it bad?”

“Because we wanted to kill people because they didn’t want to live the way we do. But people all around the world are different. They don’t have to live like we live. We killed them even though they’d never done anything to us. Our government was wrong, just like the Nazis were wrong in World War II.”

This was news to me. I didn’t know who Mom was talking about when she said the “government.” I didn’t know who the Nazis were or why they would want to kill Grandma. The world had a darker, serious cast to it.

“But we’re all OK now, right Mom?”

“We’re fine for now, honey.”

Lady K & Mom, 1975?

Sep 07 2007 08:51 am | Bio and Politics and Relationships and Stories | No Comments »

synopsis 2002-2006

I left my husband in 2 oh oh 2 for poetry. A month later, I was laid off and a firefighter poet moved in with me. I never got back into an engineering job. I resorted to web development for a couple years at less than half my former salary. In March ‘05, I became suicidal from the pointlessness of what I was doing at the office and the futility of my lukewarm relationship. I decided to try bulimia, hoping that if I got thin enough that someone would find me attractive and rescue me or that I’d die bent over a toilet, heart attack from electrolyte imbalance. The firefighter got sick of my sickness, dumped me in June ‘05.

I met Smith at the start of my activities in the poetry community. He had a croaking whisper of a voice. He often came to readings smelling like grass. I was jealous of his irreverent poetry, the compelling stories from his past, his outlaw art and his 20 year ArtCrimes publication. I read and re-read the last issue of ArtCrimes, thought it the epitomy of cool. Though jealous of his edge, it didn’t keep me from thinking highly of him, wondering about his life.

I commuted with him to a poetry reading in September 2005. After the reading, we talked past midnight. I asked, “Don’t you want to hold me?” Smith reluctantly agreed, knowing this would complicate things.

We did a full body press. It felt good, right, for both of us. We started hugging, kissing, touching. It’d been at least fifteen years since Smith’d touched a woman. He said, “You can sleep over if you are too stoned to go home.”

I said, “Only if we don’t have sex. I’m involved with several other men.”

So we went to bed in our clothes. I said, “It’s too hot.” I took off my pants, my top and my brassiere.

Smith said, “Oh, no, Lady. Panties go too.”

And that was that. I dumped the other men. Two weeks later, Smith gave me the keys. He said, “It’s not fair for you to wait for me to answer the door.”

And two weeks after that, I moved in.

Smith’s skills as a mainframe programmer were becoming obsolete, and he hated the work. He retired in December 2005. He planned to “fake it” until March 2007, living off his savings until he was eligible for early social security. He convinced me to drop out of the office world, “retire” with him, become his artistic collaborator.

A week after I moved in, we decided to move to Europe. Smith proposed October 16.

Right before retirement, he casually mentioned that he had nodules on his larynx. I freaked out, had him get a biopsy. He was diagnosed with cancer of the larynx. No health insurance.

There were two months of radiation treatments in January and February. At the same time, I was cleaning Smith’s condo and painting and repairing the walls and floor, which were damaged from twenty years of his rough art practices. We’d decided to sell the condo in order to travel, but now we had to sell it because now most of his savings were gone from medical expenses. (I’ve since read that people without insurance pay on average 3 times more than what the treatment costs insurers. This makes me severely angry.)

We were going to get married in January, but couldn’t because I couldn’t dispose of my previous husband. So we married March 18.

During this period we had three art shows, the release of the final issue of ArtCrimes, and bunches of readings… and we created art and wrote about a quarter of his memoir.

I’d never been so happy and sad at the same time. Sad because of the painfulness of dealing with Smith’s illness, and happy because I’d finally found the partner I dreamed of, someone who was a companion, someone with whom I could do art and writing and conversation.

We closed the sale of the condo in June 2006. We had to wait ’til July to see if the radiation treatments worked, getting another biopsy. Regardless, Smith decided we were going to go to Europe whether or not he was cured. As soon as we had the money, we bought our flight tickets to London. In the back of our minds, we weren’t sure they were going to let us leave, that it wasn’t permitted for us to live our dreams. We felt we were escaping.

The July biopsy showed him in remission. August, breathless, we left the country.

We’ve lived together 24/7 since December 2005. Smith’s voice has healed. He sounds like a wise cowboy.

I’ve never been so happy and so sad. I’m happy because I have my road-tested companion, love of my life, and a manuscript… and pictures I can hold in my palms. My thumbs can travel to all the countries we’ve seen.

But I’m so, so sad as well. Now that I have someone to care about, my heart has a home in the world. I’m compelled to care about the world to make it a safer place for me and my love. All global terror is personal terror for me, inescapable from my quotidian existence: the political terrorism of our imperialist institutions, the WTO, the IMF, the non-sustainable practice of globalization, our genocide of 1 million Iraqis, our de facto genocide of 100,000 Indian farmers, my recent disillusionment with the Democrats, realizing their complicity in perpetrating mass corporate and political crime. What is happening to our home, the world? We’re shitting in our own fish tank.

Jul 28 2007 10:32 am | Bio and Cancer journey and Conversations and Relationships | No Comments »

here there be dragons

collage by smith

Lady K added this blurb to my myspace base….

“Born in Bitterroot, raised on Paradise Prairie. Farm boy, car thief, Naval Academy, expelled for dope, high society marriage, armed robbery, jail, escaping the cops, illegal loft dweller, ArtCrimes, rat attacks, overdose, overdose, overdose, celibate, remarried, expat…”

most wives wouldn’t collect this particular set of facts to advertise her husband to others.

collage by lady k

ikipedian names of gods - Abba - Allah - Yahweh - Elohim - Holy Trinity - Deus - Igzi’abihier - Jah - Ngai - Mi’kmaq - the One God - Bhagavan - Brahman - Paramatma - Ishvara - Vishnu - Shiva - Supreme Cosmic Spirit - Krishna - Baquan - Waheguru - Anami Purush - Radha Swami - Bahá - Mwari - Musikavanhu - Ahura Mazda - The Great Spirit - SUGMAD - HU - Shang Ti - Khoda - there’s more, but that’s already too many gods for now.

painting of smith by ken motz

soap opera synopra past year point five:

18 months ago, i read my dead mom stories at Borders. lady poet followed me home, asked if i could keep her. told her no. she moved in 4 weeks after anyway. week later we decide to marry, sell studio, dispose possessions, live in europe. ex-lover threatens to kidnap her, kill me - or worse. we discover my throat cancer, which takes our minds off our stalker. throat surgery. my 8 weeks radiation brings out her bulimia. marry. publish ArtCrimes 21. 3 art shows. multiple poetry readings. 6 articles in press. discover polyps fill my nose from eyeball to brain pan. more surgery. root canal. sell place. pronounced cancer free.

8 months ago we leave america, wander through england, amsterdam, krakow, croatia, italy to south of france. we’ve left a series of cyber tracks, assorted oddities in word and play along the way. in two weeks we train, 2 days barcelona, train, 2 days madrid, plane, few months morocco. after that, not even The Shadow knows.

i’m in a place i’ve never been and never thought to be. fairy tale lurks ahead in secret keeping. we’re on a map where tomorrow’s big red letters saying “Here there be Dragons !”

collage by smith

Mar 26 2007 07:10 am | Bio and Travel Notes | No Comments »