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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 December, 2009

fandango

Wednesday, December 16th, 2009

the River Lethe- foto by Smith

Fandango

We’re in this waiting room
waiting for the set to change
except there’s no waiting
no waiting
just a few flowers
to feel
fuse
maybe fondle
as we tip our tongue
in tangle
and tango the won’t that awaits


fan the flame – foto by Smith

 

YOUR CASHIER WAS SAMANTHA

Tuesday, December 15th, 2009

YOUR CASHIER WAS SAMANTHA

The new utopia’s the same
as the old utopia

I missed seeing you
among the seven dollar
parking lots

Political views
are 5 for 4
dollahs

Avoid oversteering;
heel the feel
to eat &
repeat

Food’s abstract currency
bops the thoughts
that bother us

Suggestion road blocks
a head

Connect the dots
to find
your own meaning

The skin of thought atop
a dark mechanism

Intention
is at odds
with tendency

Free will an artifact
of intersection

Autononomy
an incidental
terrain

Lad K

 

brother grim

Tuesday, December 15th, 2009

one pill makes you larger . . . – foto by Smith

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, 2005


hellfire – foto by Smith

 

one main line of fool

Monday, December 14th, 2009

wired – foto by Smith

This was true before I wrote it, and ever more true every year since – it fits today like a glove.

They

Wing word round
in classic clown
till dry discourse
rues rule
Courts gesture
recourse
of course
Lambs lame lions
and liars lie down
in one main line
of fool

– Steven B. Smith, 2005


you talking to me? – foto by Smith

 

8 ball boogie

Sunday, December 13th, 2009

condensed parrot – foto by Smith

8-Ball Boogie Blues

I worked my ass off and now my pants won’t fit.
Kissed so much behind my lips are starting to stick.
This working class hero bit’s just another bag of it.

I’d eat the rich, but their taste is so bad. I’d serve
the poor, but too many already have. I’d play with myself
but I’m not all here. So I ask God, is She still there?

Reason drips in dropped disguise red through white
through blues departing in the night, the never right
hype the Man, his chicken stripe, and his doo doo do.

We worship Amway, Scientology too. As long as it’s
Brand-Named we play the fool, pay first born foreskin,
a nipple or two. So break out your dead deal dust due.

Ghosts of gone before host our yet to be. No
flowers for the finished, no hour for their song.
Ground zero works in theory only when you’re wrong.

Weren’t for Monk, I’d catch Coltrane. Weren’t for TV
I’d have a brain. Heart and soul sold for junk. If I’m
the rat, best step back cuz I’m not the one gonna jump.

8 ball boogie gets you every time. Tried to fax the
factors in, they made me stand in line. Try to share
my truth with them, they stamp my life a lie.

– Steven B. Smith, 2006-2009


condensed longevity – foto by Smith

 

THE DEATH OF NOVELTY

Sunday, December 13th, 2009

THE DEATH OF NOVELTY

The anatomy
of our confusion
is a skeleton

Conceptual chemicals know nothing
of the analog

Give up the knighthood
of understanding

The death of novelty
is not
the death of romance

I am exhaustively created
with my inside outside
labels

The radio
is made of anachronistic brown
& nostalgic orange
candy

Your silver logo
is appealing

Our myths
are a thousand comic heroes
descending

Our tragedies
the popping
of a thousand
paper bags

Confounded
by zippers and cement
of a thousand
years

The rooster
has turned acrid

The rainbow
crows at chemicals

I step back to avoid
my own insufferability

Lady K

 

rebound lounge

Saturday, December 12th, 2009

open – foto by Smith

Rebound Lounge

Week’s cold ambiance
wakes autumn equinox
sorrow wide as joy

Seduction’s gentlewant gristle
wrestles face to face fancy
pocket vein empty

Coward returns from hero’s death
lone penny production
Judas home in heart

– Steven B. Smith, 1994


one candle, two flames – foto by Smith

 

me, tiger, driveways, sin

Friday, December 11th, 2009

our tiger sun cat recharging – foto by Smith

I am not without sexual sin or driveway drama myself (see excerpt at end of blog), but since I am not casting stones, merely reporting them, I’ll continue with this Tiger untribute.

The very first news report of Tiger Woods car crash was so full of holes I immediately told Lady it was bullcrap – the facts simply didn’t gel.

I mean, here’s a man driving down his own driveway at 2:30 in the morning at 27 miles per hour which is way too fast for a driveway because the only way you can reach such speed in that short a distance is by constant acceleration, which makes it sound like he was trying to escape from rather than go to. At the end of the driveway, he loses control and crashes into a tree and fire hydrant, whereupon his loving wife grabs one of his golf clubs, rushes out and smashes his rear window with it to save him.

Huh?

I don’t believe who’s sleeping with whom is any of my moral business, although I’ve learned from my own participation in the past with two married women that adultery hurts everyone’s partners unless you’re in an agreed upon open marriage – and even then it seems everyone suffers anyway.

I do believe hypocrisy is my moral business though, especially when the committer incorporates family-values into his income operation.

And for total disclosure, I think golf is one of the stupidest non-sports there is, right up there with pro-wrestling and synchronized swimming. Of course in my book basketball, baseball, soccer and football aren’t far behind on the list of needlessness. But even so, I respect Tiger’s achievements – he’s played the golf game by its own rules and totally rules that world of bad fashion and green grass punctuated by manmade gopher holes.

I can’t believe how fast the headlines escalated from minor news to major soap opera in just two weeks, and they’re still not done. But here are some of the more fascinating, egregious and salacious selections I’ve come across.

Tiger Woods injured in minor car accident Nov 28, 2009

Tiger Woods Car Accident Is Nothing Serious and Wasn’t DUI Related

Tiger Woods’ Car Crash Caused $3,200 In Damage To Tree, Fire Hydrant

Tiger Woods Statement: Accident Is “My Fault,” Wife Acted “Courageously”

Tiger Woods’ BROKEN TOOTH? Wife Elin Nordegren Allegedly Attacked Woods With Cell Phone

Was Tiger Woods’ Car Crash Related To Cheating On His Wife?

Tiger Woods Car Accident: Alleged Affair, Mistress, Wife Fight

Elin Nordegren, Tiger Woods’ Wife, Caused Injuries, Report Says

Mindy Lawton, Tiger Woods’ Alleged Mistress: Tiger Is ‘Very Well Endowed’

Holly Sampson PICTURES: Photos Of Porn Star, Tiger Woods’ Alleged Mistress

Tiger Woods: Veronica Siwik-Daniels, aka Joslyn James, named mistress

Ashley Dupre On Tiger, His Wife And His Alleged Lovers

Holly Sampson, ESCORT? Alleged Tiger Woods Mistress May Be Call Girl

Two Rumored Tiger Mistresses Are Allegedly Escorts

Joslyn James: ANOTHER Alleged Tiger Woods Porn Star Mistress

Tiger Woods, SEX ADDICT? Alleged Mistress Jamie Jungers’ Details Revealed

Tiger Woods 4th Mistress Said To Be Coming Forward, Hires Lawyer

Cori Rist PICTURES: Photos Of Tiger Woods’ Sixth Alleged Mistress

Tiger Woods Women: PICTURES Of Seven Alleged Mistresses

ANOTHER Alleged Tiger Woods Porn Star Mistress

Kalika Moquin PHOTO: Picture Of Woods’ Newest Alleged Mistress

Jaimee Grubbs NAKED PICTURES? Nearly Nude Photos Of Tiger Woods’ Alleged Mistress Surface

Tiger Woods Mistress List Rises to 11

Exclusive: Tiger Woods Didn’t Wear Condoms With Two Flings

Tiger Woods, Jamie Jungers SEX DETAILS: ‘Wild,’ ‘Crazy’ And Against The Wall

Rachel Uchitel TOPLESS PICTURES: Shirtless Photos Of Alleged Tiger Woods Mistress Surface

Rachel Uchitel, Tiger Woods’ Alleged Mistress, Angry About Other Affairs

Tiger Woods BRIBE? $1 Million Rachel Uchitel Payoff Offer Reported

Rachel Uchitel, Tiger Woods’ Alleged Mistress, Concerned About STDs, Report Says

Rachel Uchitel — No Joy Being Called Hooker

Gatorade: Move to halt Tiger brand, controversy unrelated

Gatorade Drops Tiger Woods Drink

Tag Heuer Pulls Tiger Woods Ads

Tiger Woods TV Ads Disappear After Affair Reports

‘Tiger Woods Foursome’: Syracuse Crunch Hockey Ad Mock Woods

Tiger Woods AFFAIRS Get Animated: Taiwanese News Recreates Entire Scandal In Cartoon Form (VIDEO)

Alleged mistress: Woods ‘never mentioned wife’

It’s Not Just Tiger: Monogamous Marriage Is An Anomaly

Hefner On Tiger Woods: Monogamy Is Overrated

Star Jones: Tiger Woods Should Talk To Fellow Adulterer Barbara Walters

Capitol Punishment: Effort To Get Tiger Woods Congressional Medal Dropped

Rush Limbaugh: ‘The Black Frame Of Mind’ Is ‘Terrible’ And ‘Tiger Woods’s Choice Of Females Is Not Helping’ (AUDIO)

Playgirl Considering Buying NAKED Tiger Pics

Report: Tiger Woods Paid For Mistress’s Liposuction

LISTEN: Tiger Woods’ Mother-In-Law’s 911 Call

Report: OVERDOSE On Tiger Woods’ Charts

Tiger Woods Took Drugs, Alcohol? Vicodin, Ambien, Alcohol Were Suspected, Report Says

The Tiger Woods case shows how ‘recreational’ prescription drugs are sweeping America

Parnevik Blast Woods: ‘I Hope She Uses A Driver Next Time’

Elin Nordegren, Tiger Woods’ Wife, MOVES OUT Of Woods’ Home, Report Says

Carol Bartz: Tiger Woods’s Scandal Better For Yahoo Than Jacko’s Death

Tiger Woods Apology: “I Regret Those Transgressions With All Of My Heart”

Where does humbled Tiger (and his image) go from here?

Jillian Michaels On Tiger Woods: ‘I Knew He Was An Asshole’

Girlfriends’ Guide: Tiger Woods Is A Baby, But His Wife Does A Real Man’s Work

Joslyn James WANTED: Porn Star, Alleged Tiger Woods Mistress On Most Wanted List

Rachel Uchitel In PLAYBOY? Tiger Woods’ Alleged Mistress Reportedly Considering Offer

Porn Flick Coming On Tiger Woods

Tiger Woods SEX TAPE? Phone Sex Recording Allegedly Marketed

Naked Tiger Woods Pictures BLOCKED By British Court Order

Tiger Woods’ Secret Payoff? Golfer Allegedly Offered Witness $200,000

Tiger Woods Withdraws From His Own Golf Tournament

Tiger bares truth to wife

Tiger Woods changes his first name to Cheetah

Tiger Woods Books: Do They Still Ring True?

There Are No Mistakes, Just Lessons

Of course as I mentioned, I am not without sin here myself either sexually or driveway-wise. Not only have I been adulterous with at least two married women and attempted but failed an adultery against my own wife (who had at least 6 admitted adulteries committed against me before my try), but I rolled my car in my own driveway at over 70 miles per hour back in 1976. Here’s the story in an excerpt from chapter 24 of our unpublished book previously called CRIMINAL, but tentatively retitled:

My brother and I moved in together in a house in Brahmen in ’76. We didn’t have any money and had to decide what was important. Alcohol won out over milk and sugar, so we started drinking our coffee black. To get more alcohol, we tromped through the snow to unoccupied lakeside summer cabins and kicked in their doors. It’s not as easy to kick in a door as it looks in the movies. We took guns, drugs, alcohol and what not. Our friend Jones sold the guns. I was having fun, but I was definitely going the wrong way.

The first night we moved in together we got stoned and wrestled, goofing off. We were trying to claim the house for ourselves. Cat was on his back on the floor with his knee up. I tried to pin him down, his knee against my ribs. I slowly sank an inch down, breaking my rib. It was the gentlest breaking imaginable. The hospital gave me codeine. I immediately took a lot.

Pappy didn’t yet know his manual laborer was broken, so at five in the morning Cat and I drove down to pick up my replacement, Jones. Heading back, me driving, my brother kept shouting, “Faster, faster!” I kept saying, “Where is it, where is it?” looking for the driveway. We weren’t yet familiar with our neighborhood. I pulled around an older couple at ninety miles an hour, and just as I pulled back in front of them my brother shouted, “There it is!”

I immediately stomp my foot on the brake and turn the wheel, whereupon the car flips over onto its top and skids upside down through the driveway, across the lawn, and stops six feet from the house, upside down.

Rolling it squished the top, popped the windshield out and slightly twisted the frame. Jones drove it over to a tree, jacked the car up opposite the way the roof was bent, wrapped a chain around the roof, tied the chain to the tree and kicked the jack out. As the car fell the chain jerked the top back where it was supposed to be. We epoxied the front window back and bondoed the driver’s door shut.

Jones had an easy loose attitude toward vehicles. He had a Jeep without brakes which he’d drive through the woods, stoned. To brake, he’d downshift, and to stop, he’d run into a tree.

A short while later I was out of work and hadn’t been making my car payments. I’m sitting on my mother’s trailer porch when these two guys drive up to repossess the car. I tell them, “There it is.”

As one walked over toward it I said, “Oh, you have to get in the passenger side. We bondoed the driver’s side shut.” He just looked at me, shook his head, got in and drove away.

– excerpt from CRIMINAL by Smith and Lady; a memoir of armed robbery, stolen cars, alternative art, mainstream poetry, underground publishing, robbing the cradle, and leaving the country.


our tiger cat on prowl – foto by Smith

 

THE SWIM

Thursday, December 10th, 2009

THE SWIM
Dedicated to Poetry at the Literary Cafe, in memory of the magic wrought by Steve Goldberg & Nick Traenkner as hosts

Stochastic resonance,
SNR. Serendipity,
unfortunate minefields.
Elation, confusion.
Fluency, prudency.
Don’t look back,
babble on.

Signs and symbols
facilitate transplantation–
they are spells:
go here, take care,
stop there.

The anonymity
of the head,
the brain capsule,
a jail,
a cameo in moonlight,
bones in the wellwater.

Be real.
Dissolve yourself
on TV.

Integrity
in self loathing.
Expose yourself
severely,
explode
the world view.

Cannibalize yourself.
*Show* society.

Music
manufactures yearning
sans object.

Music
like a cowboy junkie
pulled into longing
on tunnel of
highway commute.

Ownership
is slavery everywhere.
Money
spreads over distance.

Options include
flinging your bucket
to the moon,
a tree squirrel lost
in the desert.

The commute
is an interior one.
The drone
is a mantra.

I’m a skeptic
of frantic suspension,
of obfuscated animatedness,
elite
intelligence.

Eat
your sense of specialness.

Eat
and be easy,
walk
and be free!

The cliff.
Brain without pain
into total sensory
stimulation,
annihilate thought.

Be an uncredentialed
you, a gentle you.

Sheriff’s badges hurt.
Hurdles hurt.
May hurdles be blissful
and easy.

Worry
is the crux
of the lever
used to destroy
myself,
an internal machine
of twisted mirror.

There’s always
a way through.

Ignorance
can grease a path.

Actions
are taken in
faith
that something
is true
and the assumed structure
emerges
like a beautiful circus tent
sustained by fools.

There’s a metaphysical
spaceship,
a perspective
with self loft,
a boot strap
anti-gravity
ease machine.

It operates
on moment by moment
pebbles
without thought
to grease.

The buoyancy
that carried me
here
will carry me
there.

Sometimes
when I look at you
I don’t see
your head;
an idea
is superimposed.

Gettin in the hole,
gettin in the hole.

Laying out lines
like a beautiful disaster
in American Standard English.

Certified confession
of culpability.

Getting it all out
is not sublime,
but crime. Complete

deniability
on multiple levels.

Those we do no harm.

We charm
new beach,
new wave.

We talk
and it is a
manufacturing.

We go to bed,
we dream,
we drown.

Fires of imagining,
sand in vacuum.

Waiting
in the interstitial
for tomorrow’s
ritual. The

incidental rawnesss
of time to oneself.

Now you see it,
now you don’t
messages, miracles
and madness.

Damned restraint.
Policies
for happiness
management.

The capacity
for wingless flight.

Reagan fired
the traffic controllers.
Ayn Rand
begat Alan Greenspan.

Zombies
are a metaphor
for the way
the have nots
distance themselves
from
the have nots.

Mouths
are sphincters too.

Hallowed happenstances.
Protecting
the Empire
from the hubris
of youth.

The monkeys on my back
are abstract.

One sidedness
exhausts
like Charlie Chaplain
fumbling an umbrella
collapsed in wind
or
the sonata pathetique
on a sail,
shredded in storm.

Why ain’t Beethoven
a woman?
Kill the muse.

Imagine,
the artist as a woman,
an object
dragging pretentious
affectations,
avant garde
stylized curliques,
cigarette plumes
gathered up in
ampersands.

Juxtapositions
extrapolate data sets.
Adam Smith’s magic hand,
a rare-bit
pulled
out of the vacuum.

Carbonation in soda
hurt my mouth, particles
popping
into and out of existence
like crackle rocks,
like curvature froths
at the tiniest
resolvable corners
of a fjord.

I drank it anyway,
a regular alice
in wonderland.

I ate
the low hanging globes
of technicolor concepts.

Disagreement
is fanciful lattice
for a rose.

I want to unfold
the wrapping,
but the wrapping
is what I felt.

Intangible particulars
like dusting
for fingers.

Why do we attach?
I wish
I were a leaf
or a cricket.

Or a bird.
Or maybe a stone.

Sometimes
I imagine
I’m a turtle
watching a movie,
or a clone of myself
on a mission for myself.

I am trying
to be a more perfect
clone,
more perfect
than the human within.

Breakfast of champions,
I collapse to abstractions.

All I want
is to think
and stink.

It would be nice
were I effortlessly
beautiful.

I’ll set the nanobots
to task.

The nanobots
will fix
everything, and then
we can fold it up
and put it away.

Don’t forget
to take your tabbouleh
to the future.

Lady K

 

money for nothing

Thursday, December 10th, 2009

$1,000 reward – foto by Smith

I’m looking at alternative sources of money since it’s expensive to be poor up here in the Corporate States.

I tried spending a dollar on the lottery and won two – that’s a 200% payoff, but somehow I don’t feel rich.

So I think for serious money I’m going to have to accept one of the crooked bank offers slimy folk from Africa, Hong Kong and London keep emailing me.

Mr.ARWAN IBRAHIM, the manager of Auditing and Accounting section of Bank Of Africa (B.O.A) in Ouagadougou Burkina Faso has fifteen million five hundred thousand dollars he wants me to help him steal from the bank he works for. The owner of the account died along with all his inheritable kin in a plane crash July 31st, 2001.

This same Bank of Africa in Ouagadougou Burkina Faso has eight other of their employees who want me to help them rip off their bank:

Faso’s Dr.Malik Ali – $ 7 SEVEN MILLION UNITED STATES DOLLARS U.S.A;

Faso’s MR OMAR FELIX BONGO – USD$14.MILLION US DOLLARS ;

Faso’s Mrs Stella Akah has twelve million five hundred thousand;

Faso’s DR HAMED SMANI offers nine million eight hundred United States dollars;

Faso’s Amina Kipkalya Kones tearfully begs me to help move $5.8 USD;

Faso’s Zhang Tiejun – ten million five hundred thousand United States dollar;

Faso’s Mr Mohammed 12,300.000 MILLION USD;

Faso’s MR AHMED SALAMA is the highest with twenty two million seven hundred thousand US dollars, but he’s only offering me 30% of the theft while all the others all promise 40%, so he’s out of the running right away.

All the B.O.A. Faso employees are trying to steal the same account from people who died in the plane crash with all kin. Each offer me a link to the news article describing the crash, so it must be real.

All that these employees need to do this are the name of my bank, my bank account number, and my private telephone and fax numbers. Oh, they also all want my name, which I’d have thought they knew before offering me all this money.

I’m a little confused why the Faso folk’s offers vary from 5.8 million to 22.7 million dollars since they all spring from the same plane crash, but there’s probably an honest explanation for the discrepancy – perhaps the plane’s passengers consisted of nine really rich people who happened to each be traveling with all their relatives.

Once we’re out of Africa, Mrs Sarah Grant just sends me a couple sentences: MY HUSBAND DEPOSITED 7.5 MILLION POUND WITH A BANK, I AM DYING, STAND-IN AS MY BENEFICIARY AND COLLECT THE FUND TO FINANCE CHARITY ORGANIZATION, REPLY TO:

Then there’s Mr. Robert Penman of the World Bank in London who wants to give me $3.5 million to eradicate poverty. I must admit this would definitely help eradicate my poverty.

Mr. Peter T.C. Lee of South Korea needs me to help him transfer large sums of money out of Hong Kong, where there’s also Patrick Chan of the Hang Seng Bank in Hong Kong with $10.5 million that’s stealable, and Chan Lee of BANK OF CHINA, HONG KONG who offers me $17.5 million.

Mr. Charles Nqakula from the South African Communist Party wants my help in investing his stolen money. Makes me wonder what communists are doing with so much money.

My favorite is Mr Elvis, a computer scientist working with Central Bank of Nigeria who says these emails are all a scam, that they’ll never release any money to me, but that all I need to get $15.5 million is an “Anti-drug/terrorist clearance certificate” which he can help me with behind the Nigerian Mafia’s back. I think I trust him the most because he’s admitting he’s a crook stealing from crooks and if there’s honor among thieves he’s the most dishonorable therefore the most trustworthy.

Maybe I’ll take advantage of all of these – it adds up to at least 164.5 million dollars, and my 40% would be 64.8 million minimum, which would at least be enough to get me through Christmas.

It’s good to finally have a financial plan.

My palms itch, I feel rich.


end this endless financial war – foto by Smith

 

 
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