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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 )

Archive for September, 2009

man plans, god bans

Tuesday, September 22nd, 2009

cash refund – foto by Smith

Ran around getting food and stuff to take to Pittsburgh to protest the G20 summit, then pulled into the gas station, filled up, got back in, turned the key, and the car wouldn’t start. Pushed it to the side, tried a couple times to no avail. Sat awhile, tried again and it worked. Now we’re afraid to drive it out of town tomorrow.

Maybe it’s a plot by the rich man to keep us poor folk from protesting.

the center does not hold – foto by Smith


rhymed reason

Sunday, September 20th, 2009

bumblebee wings – foto by Smith

Here’s another easy poem that goes over well at poetry readings.

Confessions of a Conservative

Let others munch spare frogs legs and things
or their mother’s tidbits so fine.

Not me.
I prefer wee bumblebee wings
with a pipe of blueberry wine.

I’ve no desire for porcupine stew
aunts coated in chocolate yea thick
fried crocodile
ala flayed caribou
or some other chef’s table trick.

A simple table whenever I dine.
Not mine all these modern cuisines.
I’m quite satisfied with blueberry wine
and old fashioned bumblebee wings.

sidewalk shadows – foto by Smith


“You’ve just crossed over into the Twilight Zone”

Saturday, September 19th, 2009

turn off – foto by Smith

On the state of the State as the world turns . . .

Man Calls 911 Over 28-Year-Old Son’s Messy Bedroom

Woman Calls 911 Over Burger King Order

Man Calls 911 Over Lack Of Lemonade

Woman Calls 911 Over Lack Of McNuggets

Man Calls 911 Over Lack Of Condiments On Sandwich

Cop Calls 911 To Say He’s “Overdosing” On Marijuana

Woman Calls 911 To Ask Cop On Date

6 Year-Old Boy Saves Grandma’s Life by Calling 911

French Ban Kissing

Naomi Wolf To Write History Of The Vagina

Sex Study Says Female Orgasm Eludes Majority Of Women

Many Women Face Sexual Advances From Faith Leaders

Teen Birth Rates Highest In Most Religious States

Mother Tracked Down Son She Gave Up For Adoption, Then Raped Him

Girl, 12, forced to marry dies giving birth

107-Year-Old Woman Is Looking For 23rd Husband

Republican Legislator Brags About Kinky Sex With Energy Lobbyists

Scientists Draw Electricity From Trees

Strange Clean Energy Sources: Watermelon, Dead Turkeys, Urine

Glow in Night Sky Was Astronaut Urine

New Data Suggests Your Parents Are Probably High Right Now

Over 100 Million Americans Have Smoked Marijuana — And It’s Still Illegal?

Ice Cream And Hamburgers Can Control Your Brain

Wall Street Teams Up With Insurance Companies to Kill People, Reap Profits


Rage, Racism And American Unreason

Limbaugh’s Racist Shocker: “We Need Segregated Buses”

New Jersey Poll: 13% Of Republicans Think Obama Is Anti-Christ

77% Of Oklahoma High School Students Can’t Name 1st President Of U.S.

status report – foto by Smith


2day’s fotos around the apt

Friday, September 18th, 2009

me in laptop screen

best value water


couch – fotos by Smith



Thursday, September 17th, 2009


They see her as an infinite sink
or a flush toilet
I see her as a continent
We all do
She’s reliable
She can take blame
She can take criticism
She’s an inspiration
She’s determined to be happy
because she’s an infinite sink
because she’s a flush toilet
If you lay a turdy word in her
she’ll flush it away
If you throw up in her
she’ll flush it away
Eat and shit
Eat and shit
She understands human foibles
She’s a continent, a firmament, a planet
she’s carefully considering her options
at the rate of five centimeters a year
like Baja California
separating from Mexico
She’s determined to be happy
She says she’s happy
She’s an inspiration
She’s Baja California
She’s a flush toilet
She’s an infinite sink
She’s a planet Earth



audio audience

Wednesday, September 16th, 2009

poetry – foto by Smith

Went to a good poetry reading last night – the monthly Lix & Kix. Lots of people, noise, interaction, with one singer/guitarist and two poets as features, and a long sign-up list for the open mic.

While reading my open-mic poem I realized everyone liked the sounds but had little idea of what I meant because the poem was too poetic and dense, meant more to be silently read on the page and pondered than heard aloud.

So I’ve decided next time to read some of my more easily decipherable poems.

Last night’s poem:

The Corporate Mean

The promised land of milk and honey
Hides the men of scars and shame
Who came they say to slay their dragon
Yet slayed to stay the same

Sleep creeps like Jason’s wool
Down shelf enchanted eyes
Devolved from Mammon’s muse
These self selected wise
Inside their phantom rooms
In fairy tale castles
Devoid of viable dooms
As integrated assholes
They sway
Illusion’s lies

Next time I’ll read my poem mom liked best, from 1964:


It hurts to be a teddy bear
To sit alone, unused
No longer wanted anywhere
Just left alone, confused

I’m tossed aside to lie in here
This dank and musty chest
The dampness serves to hide my tear
The dark to mock my past

Not always thus, this has-been no
I was her fair haired toy
She loved me once, I pleased her so
I shone, her chosen joy

Yet here I lie in darkest net
Her love for me did end
My love for her she deemed forget
She found a stranger friend

And now the stranger she does mold
And twists him through the air
While in this chest my heart grows cold
Alone and frightened, bare

Of course the danger here is the audience could dismiss me as naive and American Greeting card-ish.

Cosmopolitan 1937 – foto by Smith


At Buddha

Monday, September 14th, 2009


I am a fool of a student. My skepticism makes me a fool. I am a parasite in the belly of your Buddha. When will your enlightenment teach you to hate me? Is your grip an in and out of the moebius strip? To inhabit both sides of an idea? Does an idea encompass both sides? Is to have an opinion to be a fanatic? To know nothing an infuriating refutation of responsibility, a posture, a giving in–or the truth? Does your opinion change with point in time and were you wiser when you were younger, are you corrupt now? Is age an obfuscation, a veil? Do you think about what’s to eat all day long and are you above an animal? Are you only worried for your own hide?

You got your traction way down the line, a branch of a branch and you took it for a rule. You took an empirical phenomenon, a loop-de-loop, as an indication for the whole. You thought a word was absolute, your institution infallible, but the chimpanzees live in a house of cards.



ma dwarf

Monday, September 14th, 2009

Vampire Love by Mother Dwarf Smith, 15″ x 27″, 2003 – foto by Smith

18 months after my 30-year old brother Cat Smith blew his brains out in the back of his new unpaid for pickup in an effort to teach his wife who had just left him for a rock musician a lesson, my dad died at age 66 from missing him. This left mom with $400 a month from social security, which in Las Vegas was almost enough to either eat or pay the rent.

I couldn’t keep two households going with my pay, so asked mom to move in with me. She hesitated, said, “Are you sure?” “What choice do we have?” I replied.

After our first year together, she was thinking of moving out because of my excessive alcohol abuse. After I’d sobered up, I asked her where she would have gone, and she said “I don’t know, I just knew I couldn’t live with you anymore.”

After I drank myself to death and woke up in intensive care April 21 1991 and stopped drinking (been sober 18 years five months now), mom and I became best friends and after I taught her my collage/assemblage secrets, we became artistic collaborators as well for the next 15 years. I got her her first one-woman art show when she was 68, and she had her 5th one-woman show when she was 79, a few months before she died.

Mom was artistically creative way before I taught her assemblage–she sewed quilts, made all my shirts, had a ceramics shop in Michigan, sold her ceramics in the flea markets around Las Vegas after they moved there, and started making me small paper collages for my ArtCrimes publications in 1986.

Anyway, the foto above is one of mom’s (a.k.a. Mother Dwarf Smith) assemblages we have hanging on our wall right now. And the foto below is one of the quilted patchwork shirts she periodically made me.

After mom died, I wrote nine of my best non-fiction shorts and put them online with fotos: LAB RATS – the quantum collapse of Mother Dwarf Smith, 13 April, 1926 – June 25, 2005, by son of Dwarf. These nine pieces are what finally won me my wife Lady K, whom I had already semi-lured in via my enigmatic black tee-shirts, my mysterious outlaw persona, my constant public perfume of marijuana, my poetry, and my art.

To view Mother Dwarf’s art and newspaper reviews, try Mother Dwarf a.k.a. Florence E. Smith.

I miss mom, but glad she’s gone because she was hurting bad and had a hard nine months of dying. But she lives on in my and my friends’ hearts, and on our walls–and occasionally here in my blog.

patchwork shirt by Mother Dwarf Smith – foto by Smith



Friday, September 11th, 2009

green watching – fotos by Smith



Thursday, September 10th, 2009

details from War As Art / Art As War show at the Morgan – foto by Smith


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