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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 )
 
   
 
 

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catch up ketsup

Sunday, 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.

http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2018/01/raining-cats-gods.html

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.

https://winedrunksidewalk.blogspot.com/2018/01/day-three-hundred-and-fifty-eight.html

http://winedrunksidewalk.blogspot.com/2018/01/day-three-hundred-and-sixty-three.htmll

http://winedrunksidewalk.blogspot.com/2018/02/day-three-hundred-and-eighty-one.html

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?”
“No.”

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
restarting
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

Saturday, 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
(semi-successfully)
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:
$64.

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.

~ ~ ~

Poetry…

a paper stain,
an earache,
heartburn,

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
goes.

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
this

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
waits

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.
“Groan.”
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

Thursday, 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?
Fuhgeddaboudit.

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.

 

3 poems, 2 fotos, no song

Thursday, January 4th, 2018

Slipknot

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: https://winedrunksidewalk.blogspot.com/2018/01/day-three-hundred-and-fifty.html

 

3 for the road

Monday, January 1st, 2018

~

Triage

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
pains
joy
new wrapped in old game
so Happy Same Thing With New Name
carrying mold debts
old wepts
regrets
steps
and dead pets

We are what we are,
what we carry on

– Smith, 1.1.2018

 

mapping mobius

Thursday, 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

Wednesday, 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.

~

Match

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.

http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2017/12/just-cuz-mirrors-moments.html

~

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
jamming.

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

 

for MandyCat 2002-16

Thursday, December 21st, 2017


Mandy

Death by Credit Card

Her body old,
her weight gone,
frame down to bone and fur
her love for us still bright,
she was done,
had had it,
cancer,
pain.

She rubbed unsteady against my ankles,
looked up
and howled piteously for release.

I felt shame
because I hadn’t loved her enough
to kill her yesterday.

Next day we lay her on vet’s table
on a warm blanket,
pet her awhile,
and talked.

I knealt
and we locked eyes,
the tip of my finger
between the pads of her paw
as she held me.

When the drug hit
I saw no fear,
she just looked up and away
in brief startle,
and was gone.

Such a small creature
for so immense an impact,
blackhole of loss.

First time I’ve paid to have love killed
and we had to put it on credit.

(for MandyCat 2002-16)

– Smith, 12.21.2017




 

sacred lies whispered within

Tuesday, December 19th, 2017


detail of Lady’s new sculpture

Status Report 261

So many people in the flow
so few in the know

they no yes
they no good
they no hope

they no know in slow slide round bend
where now becomes then

laying low lie
so story still floats
for eyes scarred by truth

sacred lies whispered within
to keep from killing ourselves, family, friends

– Smith, 12.19.2017

 

heartshadow

Saturday, December 16th, 2017

Sisyphus in the Land of Sorrow

No longer waiting for my cream rise to top
nor my rock to not unroll
cuz that boat will never sail
in fact wasn’t even made
and its flag don’t fly
its tank is empty
its tires flat
and engine froze
no happy after fame and fortune
cuz unhappy race is base of game
no matter which rung you on
unless you let go
voluntarily
for real
and fuck fame
fuck fortune
live life
hug wife
pet cat
and of course
sip the coffee and toke the smoke
to set the yet for rising sun

– Smith, 12.16.2017

WINEDRUNK SIDEWALK: SHIPWRECKED IN TRUMPLAND
FIGHTING THE POWER SINCE JANUARY 20, 2017

Have another poem on Winedrunk Sidewalk — https://winedrunksidewalk.blogspot.com/2017/12/day-three-hundred-and-thirty.html.

Editor Publisher John Grochalski is publishing a different poet’s protest post every day Trump is in office

 

 
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