WDP agent – foto by Smith

We’ve penetrated the Witless Detection Program using our Avatar 3-D movie glasses.

fotos of Witless Detection Program agents by Smith


When I say just about anything, Smith asks me, “Where did you think of this? What made you think of that? What led to this?”

I talk to Smith more than anyone. It is just so good to have someone who is really interested in connecting with me so considerately, so thoroughly. I used to be so lonely.

Smith is so very rich. I feel his experiences more exciting, more valid than mine. I sometimes feel a bit flattened by my enthusiasm for Smith and his world, that I’ve lost the hard diamonds I’d summoned up in isolated loneliness before we’d started our relationship.

I’m emerging from a recent bout of quietness. I was dealing with the aftermath of my first and second breakdowns in what could be bipolar disorder or schizophrenia. I’m trying to learn how to live with a loss of lucidity, dumb numb depressed stretches, and the ravages of mania, the flashing lights of false epiphanies.

I think I’ve hunkered down inside myself to re-emerge on more equal terms as a person who authors experience, a person who makes poignant observations. I want to make sure I am not just a receiver of information, but a source.

Communication is betrayal on some level, to someone. We step on invisible toes. I’m always afraid of perpetrating betrayal.

And communicating can be invasive.

But if I am to be a writer, and I think, actually, that I *am* a writer, then I need to start talking. I find new facets of myself in each friend I talk to.

I need to be honest as much as I can muster. I need to risk misunderstanding. There are disagreements in the latticework. If I try to be in harmony all the time, I lose the beauty of what’s there, what’s mine, the fruit of my own mine.

I think the chords of independent observations, independent assertions, a bit unsettling for Smith. I’ve suddenly started talking again.

I worry that I haven’t written many love poems for Smith. I have the thought that a mere love poem to him is like saying Jehovah, that saying a love poem profanes it, for I have sullied the form and objectified Smith, my holy object, in an imperfect work. Before Smith, I would sometimes write love poems using someone else as a proxy, poisoning my pen.

Smith is holy. Talking about Smith is a way of talking about him as an object, objectifying him, and he is so much more than that. He is a distinct lifeform, my everything, my Steve.

So for a long time I couldn’t get over the holiness of our relationship enough to even talk to other males, except briefly. Worried about the sin that comes out when I open my mouth. I mull over interactions recursively, iteratively, finding casualties in the aftermath of what my subconscious has wrought. It’s a very real thing, the subconscious. What we have on the surface, our conscious thought, is incidental to strange currents within.

Talk is holy and a sin.

Irrational thoughts cause me to close up.

I’m experimenting with being more communicative. I’m feeling more communicative and creative, living with irrationality and disagreement.

Maybe my current gusto for communication has something to do with being home, with experiencing the dissonance of raw winter again. We missed winter for three years. The tug of season here is a wild violin, or a concert warming up before the grand performance. Or like Eeyore. I’ve got Eeyore braying, playing a musical saw in my chest. I’ve got something tight and excited in me. My mental interior’s lit up determinedly like Christmas lights on a beat up Cleveland porch…

I’m trying to stop feeling frantic. The frantic thing comes from trying to fly a kite for a theme, trying to grapple with the All all at once. Instead I’m turning over my moment-by-moment pebbles to find the underlying revelations, artifacts like beautiful centipedes & strange potato bugs. I don’t have to feel frantic. It’s all there. All I have to grapple with is each breaking wave as it comes in.

Lady K

evidence bag

life graph – foto by Smith

Going through my pocket notebook searching an idea for a blog, I came across these two poemettes. Do two poemettes equal one poem?

~ ~ ~

Double Talk

I wouldn’t want to be with me
I wouldn’t even want to be me
But I am me
My am is my me to be
So I be what I am
To be or not
But not not to be
So I be the be I be
Since I don’t want to be any other
I better my being being me

~ ~ ~

Evidence Bag

That said
or this done
out comes the evidence bag
puzzle pieces
quantum analysis
till confusion rains
the cat’s put back
in the box
and all returns to all
with no done
that said
or this done
out comes the evidence bag

~ ~ ~

high walker – foto by Smith



The reassurance
of recall

The bright lips
of yesterday

Nostalgia says

This is how
it should have been

This is how
it should be,

For the price of admission:
the splendor of phay-rows
& scarabs

Sunbursts above & below
Theda Bara

Vitality in the decor
of the era

We returned home
to old time radio
traditional Buick quality art
deco rage

No home was complete
without flamboyant

Graced by plaster maidens
in the modern mode

We built everything
as if
had to use

Four adults
in the back seat

Bob Hope
& the Lehman Legacy

We lived better

Air conditioners
with slumber speed

with concert tone

Easy gas economy
staffed & maintained
in perpetuity
by private funds

Come live
in the electric

Get away
to places

you thought
you never could

with Lucifer

at our test site
in Nevada

Smoke Old Gold Filters
tobaccah flavah

Belair Filter Kings &
Filter Longs & Wilbur Mills

a unique creation
of our governmental system

Wilbur Mills

caught splashing
late one night
in the reflection pool

You can’t pay
for a nice place
to live

You can’t always
get what you want
save for GE

Come live
the electric climate

We’ll delight you
with the old

Excite you
with the new

in Japanese

There are all kinds
of automatic circuits


So you can see
as soon
as you get up


See-&-forget tuning:

Adjust sound and picture
just once

get it
That Way
every time


Convenience features
to save you work

Remote control
forward & reverse

Some with clocks
that put us
to sleep

Others with clocks
to wake us up

Yes, yes, Nanette
Busby Berkeley’s Girls
Glitter Again

It’s all here
in black & white

The past is etched
in clarity



Sure only

of the grips
we have let go

–Lady K

3 lady plus a lady

winter wearing Lady – foto by Smith

cutouts by Lady K – foto by Smith

Lady lay – foto by Smith

rain Lady – foto by Smith


Collage by Lady K


Beneath paving stones and columns
of a Roman metropolis
time flays golden skins
from bronze men

Palaces glitter on
in twilight years

that would have titillated

Kinema carries
an unreeling film
to heaven

I feel
I am getting

I know the marble steps
the red carpets
each shelf of books
by Kim Il Sung

A solemn conductor
leads kindergartners

A grinning gallery of field hands
its own song

Youth in a young land
a stream

Where sailors once docked
farm boys play

Yet the sea still provides

The contented land

I ponder the future
beside a poster
of top-hatted Chief Oshkosh

Our Menominee friends
the teachers
the sturdy millworkers
the quiet-eyed children
with their ever-present ponies

of a lost life

When moviegoing
was high adventure,

And in the end
or a wrecker’s ball

in holocaust

to please a god

Lady K

Photo by Lady K



I have five words
for each finger
on my right hand &
I recycle them
until my clit
is tired.

This little piggy
wants some half & half.
Half empty!
Half fool.

But a thought
out in left field:

For who
has told the truth
and who
is well fed?

Who is impoverished?

Our acts
are magic carpets.

Our words
are something said.

When I’m converted,
I’ll be
straighter than straight.

I’ll have my teeth done,
my nose de-bulbified.

When I’m straight,
I will lie and lie.

When I’m made straight,
I will tell the troof!

Fuck the ethic;
F the affect!

My own tether
in cruel weather.

Even doors
feel tug of war.

So if you decide
your knees are jello,
why, well you can go to
hello operator,
give me number nine.

Where is my ding dong,
king kong?

Can’t row
with a scene queen…

Paddles’re taken.

I’ll use a spoon!

Parallel park
in *exactly*
the wrong way.

in the
of Art

in the

in your

Sheboom bop
sheboom bop
she-wah wah wah

In a shakedown
of the lady
we got gophers
making gravy

on Noah’s ark

with a dart

in King Hut’s tut

from the Sluts

in the mud

with your stud

Blabbah blabbah boo
Hippie High Yigh Yay

Lady K

terror by text

610 – 30% of 2012 – foto by Smith

Does this collection of recent news headlines make any sense? No. Do they offer much hope for our future? Of course not. Do they offer any proof of human intelligence or morality? No. Did I bother to arrange them into a cohesive whole? No. Then why are they here? Because they show a snapshot of our overall social, moral and financial world situation. But at least the fotos are cool. Read and weep.

Terror By Text

Are Our Minds Going The Way Of Our Waists?

Women Who Want to Want

British Woman Found Guilty Of Having Noisy Sex

FapMapper App Shares Where You’ve Masturbated, Had Sex

Nevada Brothel Lobbyist Calls Introduction Of Male Prostitution ‘Repugnant’

Victoria’s Secret? 20 Layers Of Butt Makeup

Former Miss Argentina Dies From Cosmetic Buttocks Surgery

Baby Survives Being Born In Toilet; Mom Didn’t Know She Was Pregnant

Mother Smothers Baby While Breast-Feeding On Flight

GOP Senator Admits: ‘I’ve Lived Off The Public Tit’

Man Cleavage Is Back

One In Four Teens Admit Sexting Nude Photos, Survey Finds

British Couple Make Porn To Pay For Wedding

Hookers Offer Free Sex During Copenhagen Climate Conference

Giant Penis Sparks Bizarre Media War

Eating Horse Meat in a Paris Pool

Goldman Sachs Staff Buying Guns ‘To Defend Themselves Against Public Uprising’

Drug Money Saved The World’s Banks Last Year, Says U.N. Adviser

How many Muslims has the US killed in the past 30 years?

Disgruntled Nuclear Worker Puts Radioactive Isotope In Water-Cooler

Millions In U.S. Drink Contaminated Water

Polar Bears Eating Young Due To Shrinking Sea Ice

A $5,000 Burger?!

Alcohol Pill: Gets You Drunk Without Drinking

Hey Religious Believers, Where’s Your Evidence?

WOW! Monkeys Can Recognize Their Pals In Photos

An iPhone App To Worship Ronald Reagan

Tea Party Activists Want Mandatory Christmas Carols In Public Schools

Teabagger Punches Old Man

Atheist May Be Barred From Office

Indian Baby-Tossing Festival May Be Banned

Weightlifter Has Unexpected Baby During Training

Bank Of America Employee Fired After Helping Customers

GE CEO On The Crisis: ‘The Richest People Made The Most Mistakes With The Least Accountability’

Homeland Security Embarks on Big Brother Programs to Read Our Minds and Emotions

Brazilian Boy Has 50 Sewing Needles Stuck Inside Body

Two-Legged Dog Inspires Disabled Army Vets, Others

Why Fake Optimism Is the Worst Way to Deal with Life’s Problems

Pentagon’s Advice to Traumatized Veterans: Think Happy Thoughts!

Does Death Exist? New Theory Says ‘No’

we’re all going down the drain – foto by Smith



can you help me

faint echo-y asian voice

(can you help me)

tinny, as tho from the other side

tinny through the wires

tin electrons

(can you help me)

spam of our hamhanded imagination

big thick western blooded blunt

blooded blunt of our lust

our western lust to crush


(can u help me)

lady k


“I dreamt about Buddha Cat last night. ‘I am everywhere,’ she said. ‘I am an observer.’ The color brown, the dharmic number nine were in my dream. Then Mandy woke me up by walking across my back.”

What does ‘nine’ signify?

“According to Wikipedia, there are thirteen contemplations for attaining birth in the Pure Land. #9 is the contemplation of Amitabha Buddha. There are also nine levels of birth. #9 is the lowest level of the lowest grade.”

“Aha… Buddha Cat’s in your lap again.”

That’s the third time Mandy’s sat in my lap today. Probably because I recognized her Buddha nature, after you told me.

But can she be Buddha if she’s focused on her stomach all the time?

“I think Buddha’s OK with eating. Buddha’s down to Earth. Just look at him. He’s got a big Buddha belly.”

One think I don’t like about Buddha is he left his wife and family. Just walked off. Abandoned them. How can you assume higher levels of consciousness when you abandon lower levels of responsibility?

“Aren’t there always lower spheres of consideration?”

I think responsibility to your family is a higher consideration in a lower world. He just abandoned his family.

“So even the greatest humanitarians have the greatest faults.”

They all seem to sacrifice responsibility for those closest to them to responsibility for the greatest number. Including Gandhi.

“Really, Gandhi did?”

Yeah, his family suffered. When you’re a world figure, those close to you tend to suffer more.

– – –

“Any more thoughts on the topic of Buddha Cat?”

Well, my groin is warm this cold morning thanks to the Buddha Lap Cat. Buddha cat, Buddha Kitty, Buddha Buddha, yeah. Camp town races all day long, o dudah day.

Smith & Lady