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...and they lived happily ever after. Smith & Lady: poets, artists, photographers & adventurers.
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Archive for August, 2008

zen over zero

Sunday, August 31st, 2008

font – foto by smith

Zen over Zero

Dog week later in kitchen pouring
Coffee into my veins with a dull cup
A daze of morals and Moses
Whines and Rosicrucians
It’s raining cats and gods
And I am a fine unman

elefunk man – foto by smith



Sunday, August 31st, 2008

I like Lady. I think it’s a good story.

the plot to get whitey

light head

the altar of art

clues for cleaner tools

– – –

Some understandings for me:

Here are some understandings and certainties for me.

1. I refuse to be labeled, marginalized and dismissed.
2. If you look too deeply you can see any possibility, don’t make it true, tho.
3. I refuse to be shamed.
4. I refuse to shut up, and I refuse to explain myself if it doesn’t feel ready yet.
5. I’m a good artist with good judgment in my collaborations.
6. I want to figure out who I am through writing & finish this book but I’m going to treat myself more nicely.
7. I’m going to act in faith of best intention, and if I find that I was mean, I’ll try to explore that some more and find out why, but I’m not going to go digging into it without cause.
8. I don’t abandon friends who treat me with respect but I believe they can wait for me to come when I feel up to it, or they can knock on my door if they want to talk.
9. I trust my subconscious finds to lead me on a path, and the path can be chosen according to what makes me feel comfortable and healthy.
10. I believe in the autonomy of others yet there’s a serious problem in communication that needed to be addressed.

How interesting. Hmm. These seem mostly lessons I learned from Smith, and some are lessons I learned from me. The ten commandments. Well, I always had a Christ complex, born on Christmas plus or minus an Eve. (It’s for real.)

My voices helped me find more of myself as I held every pebble, sometimes hard, sometimes softly, for a mystery about finding ground that isn’t haunted. I think I tapped into it because there are a lot of things making me angry and they needed expression.

I also found I like to use things as things rather than people. I think that’s a lesson learned too. Could be the eleventh commandment.

There are lots of good lessons. Each poem I put up in my zine is a lesson to me and if you are interested in what went where, why and what order I can share that with you. For example the title GIVING IN means to go all out for excellence in editing, selections and presentation, and evolution is a personal metaphor to be explored.

Had a good day today yesterday, slept real well last night. Realized I hadn’t written something for myself for a long time. Felt good and bad to tap into the magic, and then work my own. Not sure I want to write poetry unless it’s full flung manna, entire and unsought delivered whole unto me and not tricked into a miserable being. There are many ways to show aptitude and it’s not a competition, but a coalition.

Digging into the voices just for the heck of a good mine or to chisel a point is a little tainted ape for me, so back off and go tear down your own dream. I think we got enough pie to have some pie fights, enuff stuff to satisfy everyone. What I see is my own problem, likewise for thee. Remind me to tell you about how artists need support to make a living.

There are several rafts on my planet that feel good. Some metaphor magic I need to do to peace my mind. We got a ghost story I saw on the sidewalk, a holy dinner, the plot to get whitey and other lessons, the holiness of ego in the pursuit of excellence and why that’s a good story, magic rituals for beautiful angel apes who I love, and a poem about salt faces, come to mind. Some stories are deserved and hard earned.

The difference between Smith and me: Smith is gentle with himself, whereas I am obsessed for perfection.

– – –


the concept of truth in communication

Saturday, August 30th, 2008

another answer

“What’s wrong?”

I don’t know how to communicate well. I thought that I was clever and it would be appreciated.

“So why are you so caustic?”

I admired someone, and he was my best friend for many years. I thought he was so clever, and he is.

“I don’t have the exact quote, but Groucho Marx sed in conversations he was always listening for the opportunity to get the top joke, the best putdown. But it never facilitated the conversation, it just ended it. I’m very caustic I just don’t let it out very often.”

– – –

Voices that I love

There are lists of things for me, but they may not be for you. You may or may not see yourself in it. My subconscious self is an evil genie. I thought to write a mystery, because we had this character called Smokey Grey and I wanted him to solve some crimes. I wanted to explore something that happened to me six years ago, but the endless revibe jive of my boomerang subconscious mind lays traps on me. I’ve called on others voices to help me find my own. The voices that I used are voices that I love, voices that I carry with me in my head with pain and reverence. I love good poets. It appears the mystery was solved: I have crime in my communication.

The worst pain I feel is to cause someone shame or sadness or anger or to feel that myself. Yet to shut out the voices is to shame myself and not write this constant static of caustic crush. It’s a regular Catch-22. I didn’t even realize what I did when I perpetrated it but now I do.

Another worst thing is my envy, the grave in which I bury admiration.

A third thing is my ego and to show others how intelligent I am. The act of giving mental medicine is an administration of a poison.

Meanwhile, another grape Smith found in the Universe:

“Kwik-witted flies can detect swatter threat: Scientists have discovered that flies have very bright minds and within 100 milliseconds of spotting the fly swatter, they move their bodies in the position that allows an extension of the legs to save them.”

Today’s paper, damped and dated. Reminds me of the flies biting my fingers when I’m trying to concentrate–arg–it won’t stop. I love his sense of humor, it’s something that keeps me entertained & is not meant to hurt or pull anyone in.

“Here’s another headline, twelve decapitated bodies found in Mexico.”

I got buddha buddy mind on the brain, and it’s a tricky universe. Some mysteries need explaining and I hope you want to read my game.

– – –

polly tread lightly

There’s a mystery I gotta walk around, a good girl has to tread lightly, a good golly gotta support her man & friends explain the multidimensions of finds lest they are taken as mines in reserve. You know I loves you Smokey, there’s a fella wants to mime some questions. We got the calls for cast we think. I’m sorry I abused ya, wasn’t sure what’s the story, maybe someone wanted to sip yr sunshine cup in a bizarre complexity of coincidence that I can’t hold back because it’s darned interesting & I held that word in reserve for you (Smokey).

We’ve got missing punctuation, large and lower cases, fonts in verdana, letters sent in courier, what’s that?

Language plays that we all do to exercise the alter. Writing’s gotta come from findfields but you can choose yr footpath tender lest yr finds turn mines. You can put your heart in and out of art, like the mere menshun of a manhole. Tap into rage you don’t even feel. Kill a cat or seven and do a tap dance on his floor for more. The words just come out, they don’t mean nothing, but they’re enchanted in other dimensions. If I weren’t thinkin of you I wouldn’t admire ya anyways. All my friends are in my books. (They say yr worst nightmare can be yr best friend, and that’s a clue for whomever & who & me & you.)

Why are you so intent on solving the mystery?

Bodybags bein shipped out. People getting confused about real and not-real, the tick tack tapes in our heads we want to rid of like a coaxed witch tit for language, the things we need to work on and dare to be aware and brave.

That reminds me how Mom’s life was surreal with me around.

Like what?

She was my best audience & we joked I’d kill her. All those non-sequitors & did not follows, all those darts that were meant for me, not for thee, o my friends expounded upon like women in invisible jets (There are two, or three, or four, I haven’t counted, because I’m trying to figure out how to talk to women—we got a shared problem of clarity so often—we maternalize or woo but why we can’t be buddies and why does buddha have to be a boy. Buddha toy bodies in recursive illusions because it was there for the story.(

For instance?

Maybe I could show you some clues. We’re going to have to think about that and bat an eyelash or two.

Let me tell you a story.

There are the poetry thieves of Barcelona. There are pen pals right here. There’s a man with an eye patch at the cafe, or a sneak at a glance & wink for an ethic all the time, it don’t mean nothing, just something to illustrate a mystery. All these clues are here and as mature detectives we can talk about our ethics. Sometimes a voice is so very good you don’t realize you use it. Sometimes you don’t know what you writ until you wrote it, examined its possibilities from one o take, and it’s drop to yr death & regret. The other is a give touchdown dance of hello of an altiverse, I’m glad you found your archetype in this let’s shake hands and let me look you in the eyes and smile. It all depends on intent and establishing lines of communication and elaborating on the understanding, because the story’s complicated and not meant for sour grapes.

Yr a mysterious woman.

How did you use me?

I thought you were so strong Smokey, didn’t think about your heart, thot it always there for me and mine is there for you and thus I had you in reserve. I sed, Wow, Smokey, like to use you all ironic. Cuz you give me fine lines all the time.

How you ask of beality shapes what you see. I got magic with you Smokey, all these clues dropping from the papers. Insects in the news, power outages & back again, the altar that you made to alter what we do, the dogs you talk to on the street.* You’re the main magician and my ever dipping wishing well. It depends on how you worship less you less loose a warship. To use another’s words to ask an answer, there are so many things you can feel are your own, but they were meant for someone else. Loaded unintentions, slap happy slaughters of all the totters of different dimenshuns just because it sounded good to say when yr a babbler in yr brain to coax or trick a kid. Like when you do a collage, you collaborate, you take yr language from a picture, place it somewhere else because it looks good. & that’s all I meant, to explain a story to me from way back when, not now, not ever, and that’s a version of a proof.

To ramble on in little lambiguities is my game in plain language.

*real story

– – –

A letter to a friend

A letter to a good friend

I don’t engage in language unless it’s for real. I refuse to masturbate my heart or mind. I have had many failures of communication in the past. Ironically, this is one of the themes I was aching to write about with an incident that happened six years ago. & I can always see too many possibilities for ways to hurt the other. It kept me from looking in the eyes of people I admire for fear of burning them and being burned. I want to look everyone in the eye and answer with certainty. I see it happen all the time, they think you’ve got it all figured out, you’re supposed to have an answer as tho it’s a quick sound bite, as tho you can’t be a hypocrite or work the other side. What Crap traps we set for each other.

I had the concept for a book – Smokey Grey – a character Smith and I’ve been thinking about for three years. I knew I had a truth to communicate. All this builds and builds because I don’t even know what I’m asking when I write my lines. Truth is often revealed to me after I review what I’ve said, even in real life conversations, and it tends to have a stifling effect on me. I have to think there’s a way to reconcile shame with heart, to get over the hurdles that stop conversations, to allow us to embrace our sisters and work together in our rage, because it really is unfair, why should we shovel dirt over our graves of rage? How do we know what we say is for real? It’s a complicated dance, especially for women, and there are lots of footsteps to be followed and how dare you tell me my intelligence is crazy. That makes one want to hide behind a metaphor to protect oneself.

I don’t believe in perfect solutions and I have a tolerance for deviations that most people would find really weird. For example, most people masturbate, something like 95% of them but if you ask them about it they refuse to talk. I knew I could talk to Smith when he joked about cutting off his balls, killing his mother (joking about it) and celibacy for twenty years. This is one of many things that attract me to him. Even a single picture of him, his art, a poem, is enought to me fall in love with him. I am very afraid of losing him and the lack of understanding, as I laid my head on his chest and pull away for gaps of real beats, one, two stop, two stop, fourteen, forty, whew! one two, as he kept his head awake under anesthesia, paralyzed save for arms and head, feeling the deadness of his body. & how he got an infection and the history of how we’ve been ripped off by the u.s. medical system and why we live here for so many reasons – so many horror stories drive by – as he pulls his own stitches without waiting for me to explain why to stop but I halt for his autonomy. O Smith! I want to write about this. There is the fear of being startled by your ghost, ever, and why I want to have a reason to live after you’re gone.

I do believe in conversations and universal mind. I also believe that the act of understanding can be a breach of trust in a way in the way that it pulls one in. I’m not sure how to go about this other than to have faith, to not stifle myself, to move forward.

A metaphor for all of this is this: at a gallery in Cleveland, there was a hanging noose. The noose was not about a lynching. But if it was, so what? The noose was about the concept to be explored, and that is what makes great art, and that is why you can use swastikas in your art even if you do not happen to be Jewish. (I am.)

Now, someone kept slapping me with metaphors as tho they wanted to talk. I said, OK, I’ll listen and I see someone really needs a lot of help so maybe it’s ethical to share what I learned. But then I thought, How DARE I! But then I thought how I wish someone had helped me in the past and talked in real language. I really admire your guts, you’ve been a kind of fortifier and a mystery to me, and this was another theme I wanted to explore.




lots overlapping

Saturday, August 30th, 2008

closed tienda (store) – foto by smith

Lots Overlapping

Seems to me a lot of people
Are sleeping with a lot of people
Under various rules and regulations
While I deal in shadow
(For not all place bound in time)

I think it’s neat sniffing sheep in heat
Though not my style
I’m more rock n roll cool cruel lean scene
With lots overlapping

I’m the high in Ohio
Fractals friend
Mom made whether
Dad’s leaks and squeaks
(which is white of me)
Proof positive ant’s scant
Leather lash shadow due

I fear neither name
Nor knowledge
For magic round bounds
Joyous in-between
High noons weed easy
Stones throw from sanity

Step outside the lines
Stable tables
Yesteryear’s roarshocked inkblots
New age pap
Mammaries for stars

Be one
Be nothing
Bananas brown Asian to African
Albinos weep white
Dark, as Africa used to be

tiger tiger not burning bright – foto by smith



Friday, August 29th, 2008

. .

Looks like Vin Diesel’s gone down the food chain.*
Well, he had a horrible name for a movie star.
It’s like Rocky 17 now.
I liked him, I always did now.
O! Look at that! The eyes moved!
And there are four Ronald Reagan masks!
*And I didn’t mean nothin by that, jes talkin tricks for kids. Don’t take me outta context.


It recently occurred to me that yr probably blogging as her – and then I thought I wanted to visit regularly & put it on my list inside for later as ifn for some tasty cake

It’s a scary world for a detective, especially for a girl who forgets her punctuation. Like were I to tell you what color the sky was I probably can’t remember but I’ll find yr contrails, see wonderwoman there in her invisible jet–go WOW–note there’s something to be said, a recursive maturity in the wait. & how pretentious the language’s observations as tho I’m a teacher on the take. It makes you want to slash your eyes and crash tits and go all lower case. As though eye could dare to grade and there are some easy answers here’s some kudos and a note of mention.

meanwhile the universe colludes for my private signal entertainment:

Here’s a grape o news. Found this article right under something called The Greatest Failure of Thought in Human History, a false headline. This universe can twist yr shit and I think that it’s aware & I don’t mean to look like I put you down because I respect your thinking. it seems like reality feeds us equal doses of comedy & tragedy & we’re each our own foil, but that’s a story for another time fer the blightedly frightened & aware tarots of leaning pizzas:

“Meanwhile, the Department of Defense reported it could control the movements of a rat’s brain using a laptop computer. Researchers will turn their attention to rats, birds, and insects for performing interests of the DOD. They’re talking about militarily enhancing the most violent of apes, Man. They’re also working on a way to keep people awake for seven daze straight. They taught a monkey to move a computer mouse and a telerobotic arm simply by thinking about it. In fact, the monkeys can move an arm 600 miles away.”

It’s disgusting quirk o coincidence delivered in the morning news. & that’s the troof. Remind me to tell you about Masumi Hayashi’s dream, sidewalks, and flowers still standing in the peace of pillows.*

*I say that them calling it commondreams is like a hopeful glass of happy horse shit

– – –



Just yesterday it was yesterday
Now it’s already today

Confuse not mercy with weakness
Confuse weakness not with an upset liver
And confuse not an upset liver with love
It is the shape of the silence
Which defines the sound
Like winter rubbing against summer
Each refines the other

Only certain curtains can be drawn
The rest must be endured
The souring sermons
The centered self serving
The lion den Christians in Coliseum stands
Twixt ape and angel wandering
Torn between the knowledge
And the need

Do I worship the moon or sun
Or yet the blooded one?
I bloat and smell
Decay in age
The focus runs


The Greatest Failure of Thought in Human History: To solve climate change, we must overcome “systems blindness.” (about global warming:

– – –


Global warming is the single biggest human failure.

That reminds me, Smokey, of yr expression, to make good cake your gotta save your shit.

If you think about it, Iraq & Iran used to be jungle, until we ate it.

O Smokey, you wax depressing. What happened in those woods? They say writers ate the trees.

Got another wise crack loaded Polly?

You know I gots ya, babe, in the crosshair of my faith on the dance floor of life…

to be continued

– – –


The who in whoville calleth.. Yoo hoo! Yoda lay he hooooooo!

I’m not gonna say what I’m thinkin, Polly.

I’ll be your deep green keen whale pan pipe song.

So what is this story that yr writing?

I’m chasing the tail of the mystery!

I don’t think poetry books mysteries. And careful you don’t step on tails.

Yr not done yet are you? You got another three weeks of ten page stacks!

You cruisin for a bruisin? & they say there are more than fifty ways to whack a catcall. Thanks fur yer sense of humor. I see there’s something you can help me figure out because I some of friends to talk me through it. I thought I was the helper but I’m haunted and vice versa in reverse as is ever the case for this odd thotter.

I should explain what I’m saying here in pure language. Now I read my stacks of lines again I tap another tincture. I thought this was deflated but there’s another case I need for me. I want to write every word that I’ve learned to caress let rest and what I write is a mystery for me and not for you so ease your art and we can talk about it and I need your help. This is not a love story for a lover but a set of stories for some friends in delaced poisons. & I have a hunch it’s a case of catching abandonment and confusion lest I air some awful false auras. Let’s continue to build reality in our tracks of lines, gently, slowlike beautiful snowflakes that don’t cause abortions.

Sounds like someone’s been smoking in front of the altar.

Timeless medicine to discern the variants in perception. <-- w.c. field voice, that'd be like him. "Maybe yr psycho." I have to believe everybody has these little acid voices in their heads. "Not me. I have little lambs." You know, maybe you do, Smokey, and you got a find mine. You certainly are my friend, good to talk less caustic - I can see I used your voice to explore my story cuz you're so good at it - and I'm sorry I hurt you in the meanwhiles... It reminds me of an allegory from Babylon Towers in Shake a Little Salt Over th Shoulder City Don't Throw Yr Craps Off the Street, but we're tired of this pathway and we think this a little mean. - - - A WISH A wish for a rest and amends and a halt to explanations, a garden for our faith, and thank you for helping me to see myself in the ever compounding prison of my shame. 'A wish?' Smith says. 'You don't need this here. You don't need to have any shame.' I do love him so. - - - "Did you like that movie? Get Shorty?" Two hours ago I did, but now it seems like nausea. "What's wrong?" My head hurts. I have horrifying flights of ego & creativity alternated with buckets of shameful vomit. "Well, I'd go with the ego and creativity were I you." _ _ _ The temple of our love is strong, Smokey. Your words sustain an easy dreaming. You are the best friend I never had, the ache for explanation, an exploring flame, a curiosity for thought, a superman I thought to use like a mattress. Is to explain to hurt? You refuse to abuse, use yesterday and hold hand lesson to today. You say no shame. & I how you are great, and how I'm angry. Not at you, but yes, at you, because I am jealous and obsessed and mean and scared. & how I thought I heard my echo how my mind wasn't special, the concept of cliché but there's hope for connection, how you trump my truth, how I want to steal your art, how I want to be you, what I want to write, the rage of the real. & how you are so kind to me & how I thot you'd leave - the allegory story of movies and a bowl of berries on the sofa, pomegranite plate that you threw in the toilet, ice cream in the freezer, brown rice for breakfast, a care for health. Why are words fools? Why am I stifled? I would say woman but I'll have to tell you me. I thought to inhabit but ain't no gloves for what I am. Ain't melodrama real and other caustic thots. The livewire voices I thot to hold like crickets in my fingers like chipper smiles never say you're scared. Shame ever wants to explain & drain. -- WHAT'S WRONG? "I'm sorry yr feeling nausea. You know what? Hatter sez he doesn't like to owe people. I offered to give him some for the next shipment & he said no, let's see if it comes first." "I like Hatter. I don't like the cafe across the street no more." I don't think the Mexicans are comfortable with us sitting in their comida. We're too unusual. "Well, you shoulda seen the way that little girl was staring at us." - - - A little grape joke from the universe. My screen sez something when wrong when retrieving my id. - - - O how I'll never leave you, how I don't leave friends and if you want a rope that's fine, and if you want to throw rocks, well, that's fine too. - - - THE GARDEN ON THE ALTAR Tell me your grape joke, Smokey... "What's purple, really angry, and you better stay out of it's way?" "The grape of wrath." I think that one was pretty good. "My joke and Steinbeck's novel, sort of." I like this little garden you made on our altar, Smokey. Wait a minute – I like the shapes of plants there. That's what having plants all about. I like the flying saucers there, too. You know what? I could probably put our pieces there! (It's an altar of Art.) So, you know what yr calling yr book yet? Well, I'm thinking THE CHURCH OF NOT QUITE SO MUCH PAIN AND SUFFERING, but it could be called THE BIG FAT BOOK OF NO ANSWERS. Both sound pretentious, but I'm trying to talk with friends in a neutered language. I got a lot to learn. I notice some of my phrases pop up in your work again. Like, "Let my ego go" and other stuff. Yep. If you meet your Buddha on the street, you better have a conversation, and other things they told you not to talk about down town, like the urge to pull wings off of flies and other ways they shame smart people in the institutions to keep them locked down tight and steal their religion. Sounds like a stacked trap of flaming shaming shit, don't throw away your dreams. Did I ever tell you how you can put anything in a tamale, as long as it has cornmeal in it? & when you run out of corn, you can dry and grind banana. & if your soil only grows yams, well, that'll work too... Thank you and Good Night.


unknown nipple

Friday, August 29th, 2008

street art – foto by smith

Unknown Nipple

Your nipple
Though we’ve yet to meet
Must surely seek to touch
My tongue’s erectile tissue
Which seeks south to nether musk
Past inward looking navel
Which wise in eastern ways
When rocked in western rhythm
Knows what in maya may
Be only sleek illusion
Wonders reaped and sown
In peaks before the valley
Down treasure’s traveled road
Where promise wraps forgiven
Its penis premised trap
Where truth in life is hidden
And minor deaths enact
Their furtive nightly burden
When joy it should be danced
And future fear forgiven
Like past purveyed by chance

Your eyes so solemn watching
Your lips promised pursuit
Your soul silent searching
Your heart no kindness fused
To form for wanting giving
To life its lift and shine
My love it spurts in wanting
Your flesh your spirit wine
Within your skin whenever
Blessings cross my brow
Profane in sacred wanting
Pure light enough for now
But o o unknown nipple
O mind of supple bliss
O soul unsullied, simple
On me bestow your kiss

indigenous art – foto by smith



Thursday, August 28th, 2008


& I’m talkin to all of us. All I’m sayin is before you lay yr cards on the table, you shoulda searched yr earnest. I never tell anyone what to do, but I can show you the dance floor and let you borrow my partner. See how everyone’s confused? We got insects in our english. Is a word an object & does it make sense? How’s the internal logic of your combustible engine? Did you pop a piston? What about a worry wart?

I’m not talkin down to you sister, but I’ll steal your farts for art. Men are cold cocks on an abacus. Or are they fellow pilgrims? And why ain’t Beethoven a woman and is your heart just a dart for art and why the mass suppression? I want to wow your power. Woos an icky word. The mind field out there aims to detonate your shoes and mace your laces. It’s a private context with universal characters, and I got a get rich quick trick to save the last generation’s flames on the planet, to mime the minefields on the empty ocean floor, git our buckets to the moon & race to space, populate the people of the human race.


“Why’d you take the comments out in this blog?”

I can do what I want.

“Youch! Who said that?”

Ew, an ugly voice came out of Shady, Smokey—I meant to treat you with respect. But listen to you; you used a loaded word, you said “You shouldn’t do that.”

What word, “should?” Yikes! Who knew the calculus that led to your language. Are we striking down entire words now?

I’m sorry. There’s a logic to the patter of the path. & I believe in imperfectly executed beautiful evolution with many small niches & alien footage of foliage. I’m on hot-wire. I’m still trying to figure things out. I don’t anticipate a solution, but I will try to treat you rightly not make a misstep on yr merited respect.

“Wait a minute- I’m sorry, too. I was telling you what to do.”

The footnotes were a minefield. I admire your advocacy for expression, blind binds, sticking your tongue out in the mirror. But who knows what traps were laid for the less than wary. That path I had to tread my own. Ironic that I’d censor an expression, but it was my forum, and sometimes people don’t even see what trouble they get into. I walk a tight line. But we can put this up for discussion in the footnotes if you like.

“How dare you tell people their vision. Wait, what’s that I heard? Something just went boom.”

That was the sound of machine tricked wing. I refuse to make you the villain here, Smokey, so we’re gonna have to switch roles. The quotations are from Shady here. There, now. We’re square.

– a smokey shady joint


The only way to get through it is to tell it, Polly. Boy, someone must have touched a nerve of vengeance.

Polly’s kinda hard to swallow. I’m a nervy gal. I got eyes behind venetian blinds. I pull down the curtains and exercise some discretion, let you see the shadow on the wall. I’m gonna have to hold some secrets, Smokey, cuz life is a mystery, and a good woman can’t bear the daily double crosses.

That reminds me of yr third floor balcony yearnings and other cans of worms.

OK. We’re gonna kill the comedy, Smokey, cuz I see this story is a tragedy & I wanted to give you a taste. I’m sorry for being so mean.

It goes like this. There are thieves of opportunity, and there are thieves of skill. The poetry thieves of Barcelona, the guy who comes in to the cafe to pick yr pocket for a drink of water, phone call kidnap capers, and all this metaphor is waiting in the real world, backed up by real stories upon which we will expound. There are a lot of opportunities for the enterprising and it’s hard to sort it all out.

But we’re all adults here & I think we got enough maturity to keep each other audience. I ask for your forgiveness and there will be no more pie fights.

Pleading maturity? That’s a low blow.

Eh, you know. I got the zealotry of a born again poet & I wanted to burn a couple Buddhas. I wanted to impress with technical skill and castrate myself & the me I see in you. It’s a universal story and we are each other’s audience. It’s real art and it matters, and I hope you can see it. I could show it to you in a picture by another poet, cuz it’s perfect and it don’t hurt no one. You’ll have to wait for his permission.

Sounds like someone left a dish on the table. I’ll leave it for the next shift. I gotta go get some rest and think of the concept some more.


All I can tell you is the act of looking changes. Words are power if poetry is pure. You are the agent of your own destruction in the temple of your own belief. Chance can be a choice, and there’s also free will and cautionary actions. When poets are concerned, I advise you to talk about it at a table like mature adults, and get all your facts in advance, otherwise you can waste years of your life following a false prophet, and be forever regretful. Poets have a list of names and they can’t even trust what they hear in their own heads. Is the cat alive? Is the cat dead? If you’re curious, you can ask in real words and hope they supply the answers. Because metaphors are lies and truths at the same time. There are no answers. There are only footprints and the tracks you leave behind, things that rearrange your day and reassure your world. You don’t have to talk about it when you don’t want to. But if you want to talk about it as a sister or a brother I’d be happy to share my stories with you, and maybe some illustrations. I encourage you all to help me find my footsteps and retrieve my memories in this project called life but tomorrow that may change.


Like a haunting?

Yes. My shame haunts me.

I don’t know how you get from here to there. Was there an incident?

There was an assassination and I’m trying to figure it out. There are tape lines on the ground. I’m hoping it’s an academic question from a long gone past. I hurt you, Smokey, but you always ask me for proof of truth, day after day, you say, “What are you thinking?”

And it’s like no one ever listened before you and I certainly don’t want to shut you out. I wanna talk to you in person but my words are circular, I don’t got your plain down town business, my faith needs a recursive polish. We got a good thing going in this partnership. My mind jumps to the immediate, the cold passionate kisses showered in tear of wine. I believe I got a lot of radiant sunshine that lasts for you to the end of your time, and now I got hope that when you’re gone there’s a reason for me to live, where there wasn’t before.

Now the problem is, several people want to talk to me. But then I don’t know if I can trust this train of thinkin because raw language is a rope that pulls one in. I think I’m interested in the talk of concepts not of gendered words. But is talk neutered? I’m not sure the project of my life wants to court that cause and effect because right now I just want to write and look at ideas. It’s all understandable, and there are many skilled players, and you gotta watch what you show in your fingers, and it happened before in my book and it’s a matter of talking with each other clearly, making decisions and choosing what you need to do for you. I wished someone had spoken to me clearly in the past.

Some thinkin and writin’s gotta be done. I believe in magic and happy shared kool-aid without poison. And absolutes are not cold bullet concepts, but abstracts for specific application from the textbook of our trampled footpath.

So this is a private/public consternation about art & meaning & bounty.

Smokey, I got you on the brain like a disease. So all I’m sayin is, you’re gonna have to wait and find out. I want stones to crawl under and examine.


Hatter and a friend used to steal luggage from the airport. That’s it. That was just a sentence going into something else. He had a bone spur, sez every step hurt while he was searching for a stamp for a bribe from the government. Hatter borrowed money from us. The government never got the letter. He waited two months and he didn’t hear a word while we suspended our belief in return for our faith in his story. I do not talk in calculus of lightened load. I can’t get past the headlights now. Smith’s stitches undone himself while I cried over the power of his determined autonomy. That’s the perpetual story of Us. It’s very interesting.

To quote a paragoric: “We will kill things and eat them. We will turn savage. Write our blogs in blood.”

I think that we can mend this broken pillow. Wipe yr grief, store your receipts.

Meanwhile here’s a cocktail napkin called HEY THERE
I feel like this screen is a fishbowl…

. bloop

O, that I would say what I write, and backwards too would be fresh

so many details to existence if I slow comb it

Smokey sez: One book won’t kill you. I see the way the ladies walk for fear of plagiarized paraphrases.


A self sustaining titillating pile of
shit is what I made o my name,
earnst burned Babbler, that’s a power word
from withinstitution o my wisdom &
I’m sorry worst fur the way I wore ya,
cuz I’ve high tide love fur you.* I went

low town, low grape. Taint
nothing wrong save for taunt
on a naked ape. I wantd touch
down, neutral ground 2 celebrate.

There ain’t no fault in their gestalt,
it’s me who got specific on sum good fish floats,
my Pacific toxin moxie. I’m so sorry
in a word made war.

I made enemies outta friends & the rest into enigmas, playing a game with every name assuming self the shit un where I’d scoot remains.

* We’ll ‘jig it together forever in absolute time’ o my blessed nested manifestation at the multiplex showing only at a theater, only near you. Any perceived insults in this are the result of specific blinders & not meant fur real. & that’s stamped, notarized, & put in the bank.


I asked myself who I wanted to be. I wanted to be special k. I called my keyboard catalyst, notebook named for bite of writer & when they looked I blushed if they saw my eyes. I cut it off, you star who I inhabit, eyelash batting traps like they lay it out flat, a scream of starry nightmares, a dazzling display of bewildering darts & other proxieness.


Every land to mind is trap
a touchdown rock with loft
a ring with wings in which
you scoffed by mere of mention–
when every word is used
it squirms, my love, and
this is you & yr readymade
mines on reverb like a
bunny I keep showing
endless echo & he’s

Careful no accident in yr incident
when you pick a sticky pocket
of eyeball in yr aspect like lacing
a list of beautiful bodies &
powerful mime..

A cousin in a closet

who I wanted to inhabit was a
she who danced with dark, her eyelash bat traps like they
lay it out flat, a scream of a starry nightmares
so beautiful I had to close it before I exploded
a dazzling display of bewildering darts
I wanna be you, you, you, & me & I
wonder whose arms I inhabit, O star,
cuz the face in the mirror
ain’t familiar & it looks like you
like the proxie of to beg
for explaining & to
prove a point and all for art.
This is a variant on a theme
dreaming sleepless for a week
a whisper that won’t stop writing,
a which that I’m crazy
and the fucked
of double
exploding and rolling
on the tricked track needle
of a grooved out point.

* I married Bugs Bunny with my Kat in the Hat on reverbs of hallowed ground


A snake for a shoelace, I love your lisp. Thanks for helping me get my boots on tight. Let me tell you a story later about how she is in a he. I got an expound on an elaboration, a real deal, too, right here, on my own ground, an endlessly revibed seed in me that inhabits my brain and sticks like charmed witch bubblegum. This one I keep in constant storage. I think it’s safe to go back to Courier now, I got a letter to deliver. Remind me later to tell you how I wanted to explain the Seuss in Smith, how that is part what started this thing and why I think he’s important and a universal truth of hallowed ground. Then a revibe of his pocket that was felt up & mimed by an artist, cuz that’s important too:

French Kiss

Remember the French Kiss?
I don’t think the French
invented it, do you?

I think it was that
little snake
in the Garden of Eden,
that little
slither tongue.

Ohh, come hither
come hither

that little snake
that little snake

Smith & Lady

& while we’re at it, let’s include this & this, important gold star references in my lexicon. I got multi-faceted tricks between the mirrored walls of quoteline time:

Brother Grim

Scamper little bunny
Run for cover fast
Protect your carrots
Forget the nest
The fox is hungry
The wolf he wants
Bunny tummy
Plus all the rest
Of the critters
Of forest
Far larger than you
Are looking
For cooking
Material too
So run funny bunny
My money’s on you
George Bush is too stupid
To ever catch you
Said the souls of the slaughtered
To the living few

Said the souls of the slaughtered
To the living few

Steven B. Smith

Bye Buy

The Man keeps knocking
Down my front door
Wants to sell me some
Sorta social spore
Says grits & groceries
Ain’t enough
In the modern life
You need much more stuff
Made me want to crow
And flap my thing
Chase the hole
Outside wedding ring
So I cut my hair
De-furred my face
Gave the Man a chance
To show a better place
Where the air was clear
The water free
The fair folk there
Accepting me
But when they pursed my lips
To kiss an ugly place
The Man above unzipped below
I said sorry sir I gotta go
Get out of my face
You can keep your fairs
Your free fatted Fraus
The lure of your lair
Is lacking in now
I’ll take the stair
It’s quicker somehow
Cleaner too
Thanks to no you
You can unstab my back
Cuz you’ll need your knife
Rat back to the pack
That leads your life
It’s hit the road Jack
Be ass and back
Or tap tap tap brutal bell
I bye buy’s black burden
I lay down your load
You ain’t no at
For this gone cat
As for is
You’re due your due
You can go to Hell
Be your own fondue
Drink dropping lake
Eat rising grape
Work rolling rock returning
Dirt burning

Steven B. Smith


Looks like everyone’s getting killed in my book.

Did you ever read Candide, by Voltaire?

No, I couldn’t force myself to read it.

Everybody dies in it. But by the end of the book they’re all back again. I smell you.

I know, I tell ya, thinkin stinks.

You gotta wash up, take a bath and get some rest.



Thursday, August 28th, 2008

coffee cafe art – foto by smith


Like love and money
We weave about the focus
A melody of maybe
In silent forest ritual
Growth duration flesh essence

We stand in the snow
Embrace the cold
And leave no tracks
Though we stumble
Frosted amidst redemption

I need a dollar like a dead man
Needs a coffin
Old women stare at my crotch
Suck sun in summer
Seek sin in fall

wall art at nick’s cleveland greasy diner – foto by smith


three faces of eve

Wednesday, August 27th, 2008

shadow fact – foto by smith

Three Faces of Eve

Moroi, Moroi
We meet where
The cuckoo does not sing
The dog does not bark
The sacred yew my flesh
The warming gone

Though hidden behind
Paths in the park
I in my city
Am amphetamine hot
And see
Clean Grecian face
In crumpled wrap
Of excrement
On flesh

None descending the stair
Dare call patrons
Matrons of questionable ease
Strip tease
Sand not withstanding
For each beach is the same
Same lame game
Where neither retribution
Nor love of institution
Dare descend dissembled daze
In this garbage of Eden

Bring back the snake

street art – foto by smith



Wednesday, August 27th, 2008


…so what this cat taught me, is I can take anything, I can make it mine. I mean, who knows, maybe he wasn’t even talkin specifically to me, you see? I think he got a bunch of us, all lined up in a row, and he was gonna see if the bullet could travel in a straight line, or if there was reverb, or if the bullet got bouncy. Who knows.

So I thought, well, I really want to answer this cat, catch it by its tail & ask it some questions. The cat turned fraidy on me, said, “I got a wife & child back home.” I thought, “Hm. Dontcha see I got a dance partner too? I’m not looking for betrayal. I just want to know some answers, kitty cat.”

Wow! And all I wanted was like, to follow through on a line of inquiry.

And the concept of poetic voice, and like, your voice has been my constant companion, I’ve even absorbed it into my head. Maybe kinda a romantic glorification, sure. But so what? It’s all fodder for art… but I’m never gonna betray you baby.

I thought, I’m gonna catch me that cat. Has multifold ramifications – yr always talking about Heisenberg & the trap of looking. & when I look, I see deeply, it’s like laser precision guided missile-ry – or at least that’s what the defense contractors tole us – that there would be no collatoral damage cuz of the targeting systems…

“So what I wanna know, Polly, is does this book have a story? How’re we gonna keep the readers interested? How we gonna keep our magic personal yet write about it?”

You gotta have faith, Smokey. And now I fear I got you hangin on my every word like a cigarette burn. But you knows I love ya. & when you see something that hurts ya, well, we’ll just blame it on Shady, now. Shady’ll be the fall guy. He’s a curious cat. He’s like the villain in your book. & this book is for you. This is where I share my fear with you and make you understand, my love, my man…
“I would like to see a bull fight here in Mexico, ifn they were going to do it anyways. Kinda good economy.”

Sure, why not. I just looked at a bunch of people in my cafe & it hit me–we’re all casualties of cruelty–I could elaborate on that but…

I wanna let you know that each fish got a bigger fish and the chain of command dictates that one day yr gonna be a big fish and you won’t even realize all these lil things are dyin all around ya–it’ll be like krill kill thru the bay-leen…

I could elaborate on that even more but & the only way not to kill is to kill yrself. So that’s why I did it, Smokey. That’s why I poured gasoline in the gunk works. I say to thee, LET MY EGO GO…

“Wasn’t that a commercial?”

Ha ha. Yr making light of my GENIUS, my ART. How DARE you. You step on my tail.

“Yr like Godzilla, Baby, Queen Kong-”

No, I’m more like Fey Rey with a Ding Dong.

“HA! Yr the foil to my inflation. That reminds me. I always wanted to poke out my eye & give myself a de facto lobotomy.”

You’ll need an eyepatch. Oops!

“Wha? Were you getting too specific again? Was that a real experience?”

Shit. Yep.

“You can’t just go on writing about eye patches. You’ll get certain factions nervous. You shouldn’t talk about the clientèle that way, reveal their secrets.”

Well, since we’re talkin about it, I’d like to get me a big black pirate ship & sing the hidey hoe!

“They’re gonna push you off yr plank.”

O no–I think he’s probably cool with it. Don’t worry. All I’m sayin is, an eye patch is really admirable, even classy & we got license to use it. I even got a reference. Smith sez, “When we get some money I’m gonna get you skinned and get me a scar put in my forehead, thru the eyelid and down the cheek.”

Ooo–you had to mention the skin. Ain’t nothing sacred?

“No, Polly. Nothing shall be spared. What comes around goes around, and there ain’t no rules on this ship–only guylines of experience.”

O, it’s a cool world. While we’re at it, I always feel like yr putting Lady on the dis-play–a worse for wear–somethin to drive all the pirates away: “SEE LADY & HER HANGING SKIN.”

“Are you askin for a fight?”

They say there ain’t no rules in a knife fight, Smokey. Let’s get it on. (They also say, there ain’t no rules in love & war.) And O, I saw you looking at me in the cafe, watchin how I interact with other people, noting the drive-by starings.

“You’re referring to your jumpiness, ain’t ya.”

It’s like everyone’s a cop on the beat. Heck. I just wrote about an eye patch sitting in this cafe. And then the guy came right up & talked to me! I was a-scared he’d see the open page in my notepad whilst he ordered his whims, spook me outta my earnest words. It tweren’t no offense meant, Smokey- I swear it.

“This reminds me of a scene that turned my face grey and robbed me of my sleep.”

I know what you mean. You looked like a ghost. It’s a complicated complexity to it all – even the act of explaining begs the brain of the Other. I jes gotta tell ya, Smokey, put on yr x-ray glasses and look at my heart on the dissection table. It’s all there for ya to see. It’s pumpin good and it sez Smokey, Smokey, Smokey like some kinda puff signal.

“Or a fog machine.”

But you know that cuz you seen all the possibilities, the hurdles to faith. It’s like learning a language, Smokey. It’s a crude cudgel for truth’s crucible–and here’s another allegory for ya: this Mexican gent came up to the counter whilst I wrote and shook me outta my gestalt, scaring the bejesus outta me. I asked him—in Mexican–“You want food from here?”

Then I thought, how rude my tool, but he didn’t take offense. He sed, “No, thank you,” and I thot whereas I coulda greeted him better, you know—I coulda sed, “Good morning, would you like to buy something from the cafe?” which is more polite, but he startled me, that’s all. Just like you did the other day.

This might seem boring right now but hang on. I tell ya, it’s a collusion of coincidence and it gives many people illusions but I’m gonna explain it all in my book.

Yr like a philosopher, Polly.

No, just a butt fucked wing nut, but thanks, and have a nice day.

“This all brings me to a topic, Polly, I’ve a want of exploring this—the SHAME GAME.”

No! Smokey, back, my brain can’t handle this! I need some sleep!

“O–fuck off & die, bitch.”

That’s just crazy crest, Smokey, & yr supposed to be my co-star.

“Or the coaster of yr ride – or yr demented hand puppet.”

O! How low can you go? Wanna feel my pocket? Have I told you about the low hanging blue balls?

“Yr so cruel.”

They’re just like juicy fruits, all the tidier after an operation.

“You psychotic bitch! You metaphor whore!”

No, I swear, I wrote this before I read his.

“That’s the other thing I want to do, go get me a scalpel.”

I got the manual right here, Smokey! I know you been wanting to do this fer YEARS! *

“OOOOOOOoooo! Shit. Yr a crazy lady!”

No! I’m Shady, and I gotcha in the crosshair of life. There are some things in which I’m interested, Smokey, as a pure grammatically correct intellect n all. The whys & wherefors, the philosopher’s gold nuggets.

“Be careful you don’t turn gold to shit with yr alchemy.”

It’s just scientific detachment. I think you can handle it. I got no purposeful animosity–but I reserve the right to be a hypocrite and you know they say there’re more than 50 ways to skin a cat. And yr my role model in the quest for the illusive ground floor of truth. (I gotta credit that fine find to a very smart lady I’m courting for some truth juice.)

“You comin on to a lady?”

No. There are lots of ladies and come-on’s a label & who knows where the delineations lie. But that & the methods employed within the games we frame are a bedtime story for another hookah pipe night.

“Another mystery to solved, Shady?”

Yep. Gotta get that cat by its balls. Did I ever tell you about the fella who felt up my ethic?

“What juggling. O my. Was it interesting?”

It was just like calculus. You shoulda SEEN the brains on this dude. It was like the time I tole ya about when I set inside the theatre—I was wearing a low cut skort–& this fella set himself right next to me, brushing his hand accidentally against my thigh.

“Why didn’t you move, Polly, why didn’t you move?

Well, I was intent on watching the movie. It was like one of those carpets from the 80s, a real variegated shag, had strands of different densities—it was freaky, like yr beard on mushrooms.

“Remember the time you said I wonder if yr smart enuff for me, Lady?”

Yr plenty smart. Like I sed, yr a readymade, a real bona fide bona fide, a perch for celebrated consternations of consciousness.

I once read a poem writ by a guy who stuttered. The title of the poem was THE TREE OF REALITY. Good read, those leaves. Full flung from the gods despite the extra articulation.

So what I’m sayin is, SMART ain’t always OBVIOUS and UP (but it helps)–it’s HEART—is there HEART in your ART?

“Oo- you got a creepy manifesto. Yr a blighted babe.”

You’d better believe it, Smokey, & I ain’t takin no prisoners & the Geneva Conventions will not be absurd. Stop me before I immolate in shame.

“So, what’s this all about? Aren’t you afraid you’re gonna hurt someone?”

Why, words don’t matter, Smokey, do they?

“I don’t know. I guess yr gonna have to find that out, Lady.”

I’d like to think of it like this. We’re all partners in the creative coalition with equal opportunity for expression, blame & shame. Meanwhile, eyes got voices in the head that need to be explained, like a mouth for an ear or the invention of the telephone or several doses of pre-chewed cans of worms.

“I see you’ve thought this out, Shady, but perception’s an onion skin illusion & I got the transparencies. Have you thought about the use of maturity in this application?

No, Smokey, you got good game. Yeah, this ain’t no fuckin restaurant, is it. It ain’t an all-you-can-eat buffet. You gotta show some restraint. I gotta do some thinkin on this. O, I want you to tell us about Jones & his brakes & I’ll tell them about Kathy’s** mutilation dream. I’m gonna go take a nap…
* The wish for missing balls is in CRIMINAL, if we ever get a publisher.
** My real name is Kathy

I tell ya, I want to fly into those footnotes like a screaming banshee. The cat sez words are dead, & someone killed the words!

Whose footnotes, the lady’s?

No, I love Lady. I want to protect her. She’s like a fucking symbol of innocence. She walks into the world like a virgin searching unicorn. I have no desire to hurt or fool her, just show her some mathematical proofs & blueprints. So that’s why I want to do some straight talk here, Smokey. Cuz this is a serious project and there are several detectives askin questions.

So whose footnotes, then?

The cat in the hat. He was begging for exchange for weeks, cold calling all the high class prophets, dialing through the phone book. He threw together a quick resume, demonstrating wicked proficiency. Then he threw my car keys in the field so I’d have to bend over.

Go away, I said, as I searched for my keys. I’m busy. I’m not interested. I got tons of potential in different directions, seeping like a multifaceted, professional infestation through the ranks. & I said, if some givin’s gonna get got, I’m gonna be the one spreading jism. & I wouldn’t give it to him other than in a very abstract, professional manner, such as funny balloons one might blow up outta medical gloves.

Wow. That’s loaded. Then what happened?

I wanted to write something real that dealt with my own truth, maybe some other truths been botherin me a while, too. Of boring abstract philosophical portent. Here’s a specific context: Lady was working with Smith for three years and they finally had their baby. It was a countdown to turnover, a real efficient birth. The script came in with the stork basket. I knew I had a project. It was called, HOW TO WRITE A BOOK IN THIRTY DAYS. I figured OK, the calculation is ten pages per day but what the fuck am I going to write? What’s the context for all my craziness?

As if there can be a context for your craziness, Lady.

Don’t shame me. We’re truth talking.

I don’t mean to shame ya, Lady. You must understand I am only serving up as the devil’s advocate in this inquisition & this pitter patter is just a way to explain.

OK. So, right away this agent calls me up on the telephone with a story idea. I guess he’d read some passages from my book. I wasn’t sure if he was calling me for work, or if it was a come on. I certainly didn’t want to encourage him if it was a come on, and there are all kinds of complications in collaborative relations. You open one box, there are others, and it’s like the dice of death. But then I remembered how jealous Lady was of Smith’s collaborations with other women and how she kept it in check. And the agent had some brilliant ideas, a real high class outfit, so I went with it. Heck, I even searched out other proxies, ways to obscure my tracklines, I tried to find some wymyn too, but the language in that taint is haunted. & how could Lady explain all this to Smith, whose heart is breakin for some simple table conversation and some low down get down jive, while Lady’s busy trying to crank out her daily quota, a deca pages on some dicey shit?

So that’s why you turned yourself into Shady?

Yep. I had to give myself a penis to bone up to the ladies and buddify the men. I wanted to abstract myself, make it pure engagement. Question my identity but make it obvious to all who follow, in turn making them ask themselves more questions and rising the tide to lift everyone’s boats. But the kool-aid was tainted, there were tumbling dominoes of death & everyone’s dead.

I don’t think you can say that. I mean, look at all the eggs. You got a couple people workin with ya. You got interest. You got new subscribers. You got steam for yr new dream. You got people with popcorn sitting & watching. You got a venue for some serious ideas about writing & thought & general human behavior.

Yep. Well, I got one dead Bunny who opted out. But I don’t know if I want to reveal all that right now, you know, Smokey? Maybe it can be a kinda inside job, the gunk in the works, the cockroaches in the pipelines. I always wanted to pull the cloth of a table & say, AND THE FLOWERS ARE STILL STANDING.

You made one big mistake Shady, the golden rule: NEVER EXPLAIN NOTHIN.

Hah! We’ll save that for another day, Master Man. I got an ache to explain everything! Get my Wordsworth! Ping! Yr Sterile!

Zap! Yr pregnant.

So fun playing tag with you in my mind. O, by the way, take a look at the room and see if you see what’s missing.

The quotation marks?

Read between the lines & supply the missing words.* Lends an airiness, don’t it?

Yep. I can still follow it.

* a jest to a good friend of mine who appreciates a joke made in good nature
Shit, Lady, we’re outta luck. I can’t tell if that cat’s alive or dead.

Well, he looks dead to me Smokey, but they say a cat’s got nine lives. I saw yr picture with the half eaten entrails. I think the roof dogs finished that half. It was like a black box job with a hack saw and an inexperienced magician.

Oh, Smokey, we got another detective on the case. He says we’ve gone kafkaesque with a bulimic fly, a half dead cat, a moth that never made it to the door, a creepy cockroach with a rorshack* ink blot, Harvey the Rare Bit & a mole… who knows how many critters & oh, I think the bear’s coming soon… Let’s set the trap. Whatcha feel like fer dinner tomorrow, Smokey?

Bear… I want a bear…

You want the bear? I don’t think that’s a good idea. Dead dice. That bear was just hungry. He walked into a black room and he was blinded by the lamplight. Words are weapons of engagement & I’m trying to diffuse a botched job. Our subconscious has an evil genius that connects us to a common context of universal meaning, and every word is rigged, even if the participants aren’t players or playing. I ain’t a rat for that gone trap. I ain’t letting anyone touch these li[n]es. This is a tight rope and it needs to be precise.

Sounds toxic.

You’d better believe it. It took me three years* to get over a couple of ugly deeds from an overinflated jackass gas bag…

O, is *that* how you thought of him.

No, it tweren’t his fault, it was a lack of understanding, he communicated a universal truth & I thought it had a personal meaning. They say yr best friend can become yr personal nightmare. I’ll let you in on it later. Stay tuned…

*here’s a fact to spare you misery: this was circa 2002-05

Yr burning house is haunted word
like the leaning taint of taunt–

An unseen dream
regurgitates in a hurry–
a fly flurries neon of a
lucky find fought bottom
skies rung cat in hat
trick like a wily rabbit
(came quick)

Was it clean?

A lucky sevens yr
shuffling house of cards
like a man’s fat hands
on th white gloved moon–

& that’s a stack of facts
like a swift bag of shit
burns bricks thru a glass ruse–

That’s the troof
& I’m sticking to it.
I ain’t no trappin rat
in a glib flap of lip
tricked out hat
yanked behind
a curtain called loose
like a
soar or a
soured grape
sandwich clit

But you could keep on going forever, I think you get the juggling gist of this fist of compound tower of scoured jive– and that’s a clue for you, a roadmap, and a tool

O pretentious mentor & wandering jew

I want to do multiple bags of trick. It’s called open up yr inner ear & catch the rain, or the listening eye, or how to titillate yr senses.

“Rain? I heard that metaphor before.”

It’s also called, How to Explain Beautiful Objects to Your Man, How to Ward Off Evil, Even Buddha got an Ego, Don’t be Afraid to Talk About Yr Fears, How to Find Your Dream, and How to be Faithful to Your Wife.

“That omission begs a question. I got something to worry about?”

Yr a sharp shooter. I don’t think so, Smokey. But it seems I’m more the story, serving you up some clues. That’s another conversation we gotta have later, I don’t know if I got enough hydraulics for it now. The fates, the future—all are catcalling me. & we got some blue balls that need spliced, some tension that needs diffused, some pain that needs explaining.

“Like a questioning breeze.”

I don’t want to stomp on someone else’s metaphor, but I sure liked that. That was kinda like an honorable mention, a shout out to a sister, a helping hand. They say, No Pain, No Gain, but I ain’t about to be mum for no bullies. Even if they thought they were workin some kinda tortured Art.

“Bully? Yr the biggest.”

Yr right, Smokey. & the Bully was a Buddha. We gotta talk about this brother-sister father-daughter mother-daughter shit later. Heck, we even got some father-son, and how if you meet the Buddha on the Road you’d better get Split. & we also gotta do the Mirror Mirror on the Wall trick.

“Sounds like you gotta a lotta variations on a theme. I’m a little worried cuz yr typing away, and I’m not dictating.”

I’m glad yr communicating openly, Smokey. She tried to do that with another man—six years ago to be explicit—but I’m not sure how to approach that story. We’re gonna have to shape out the tangentials on that one-the man is the stuff of nightmares & frightened blights of fancy. I wanna show you the whole enchilada at once, grab pie from the sky & serve it up whole, but I can’t do that without name calling & stepping on toes & really we’re each each other and all our own.

“Did you use him?”

Maybe, & he certainly used me. OK, but yr like the main detective on the case–that’s yr role & it’s got tender tenure, and I got a story to tell. A truce of truth.

“That sounds familiar.”

It’s called, How to Keep Yr Dream Achieved & How to Help a Fellow Sufferer & How to Tap Into the Pain without Getting Drained & I Ain’t Your Secretary No More.

“Shit, Lady, sounds like you got a manifesto.”

& It’s also called Never Surrender & Yr Not Too Old to Jump Out of Airplanes. Interesting yr calling me Lady. Sounds natural for a healthy rapport. Nope, I don’t got a manifesto, but if we keep communicating we can create a rapport of explanation, better soil to grow together. It’s easier to tell you this story on paper cuz it taps into some keen & mean stuff that’ll burn out yr eyelids and flap yr daylights.

“I like this plain spoken language. Not everything gotta be cryptic. Crypto-cat! Ha!”

We’re gonna shake that cat’s tail. That reminds me about another one of yr shame things.

“Was it shame? Using an animal? Objectifying an object?”

That’s what they tell ya. But I believe in mass redemption & taking off the labels—we’re even going to explore the tort of torture–cuz we’re all equal opportunity pilgrims in my plan. They say the best way to learn is to preach & you don’t need no unnecessary pain. It’s kinda like a get-rich-quick scheme or THE BIG BOOK OF ANSWERS.

“Yeah, like you got some kinda special understanding? The higher you are, the harder you fall. What kinda kool-aid you trying to sell. & I see yr back to using quotation marks. You’ll get yr comeuppance yet.”

Yep! Now see if you can read between the lines, Pops. Yr a shame gamer.

“Yr such a card.”

Don’t use loaded words, Smokey.

“I gotta whole pack.”

Now yr just being mean.

“OK, I gotta cat-o-nine tails.”

Hmf. Be nice to a brother. Keep yr eyeballs loaded, keep talkin, & look out.


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