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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, 2010

dear reality

Friday, December 31st, 2010

Reality – sculpture & foto by Smith

Dear Reality

I say much and know little
Please help me reverse that

year end Smith – foto by Smith


re response

Thursday, December 30th, 2010

repent for 2010 – foto by Smith

I received this poetic comment:

who’s a we and who’s a they
that’ll be the day
when we say what they say anyway
you know what I’m sayin

– Jack McGuane

on my blogged poem:

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

And I received this surreal comment:

there’s a new street car, you ride free. the driver is some spanish cat related to Salvador of course. the TV innuendos lie in a hard pile by the exit. you’re taking home a DVD “Night of the Living Dead” it’s so bad it’s funny, like life in the “Golden Mean Way”, I had a teacher! he blew his brains out or maybe the subway at rush hour. how inconsiderate. good bread, good dope, I never said a word, they conned me with liquor and nose candy. when I looked at my watch it was late, no wonder the car was empty. now I’m just like the other guy paying fees for even on-line freebies, we lose at the temple of sour grapes, honey doesn’t pay, we make sure of that.

– donny

on my blogged poem:

Me, Myself and Lie

There’re three mes in me:
skin, brain, and bone.
and none of them will leave me alone.

Cleveland Oh- foto by Smith


bedtime story for lady

Tuesday, December 28th, 2010

space ship – foto by Smith

I go in to tuck Lady into bed, crawl up from the foot of the bed until I can lie on my stomach and kiss her forehead softly and repeatedly with little dream kisses to prevent her nightmares.

“My poor baby,” she says.

“Why poor baby?” I ask.

“Because of all your body pain.”

“I don’t feel too bad in this position.”

“You should sleep on your stomach.”

“I can’t, I can’t breathe right on my stomach through the night.”

“You need an anti-gravity envelope for sleep.”

“I could sleep easily in space, just floating, no stress or weight or pain anywhere. Put up little cargo nets so I didn’t float away. And it’d be great for us to make love in weightlessness — pause — or at least it used to be back before all the space crumbs, before the astronauts started eating potato chips and the little leftover chomped crumbles floated around everywhere coating man and machine. It got worse when the Russians brought up hard pretzels; they’d chew with their mouths open and bits of pretzel shards went everywhere getting into eyes, ears, nose, armpits, vagina and ass cracks, between ball sack and thigh — it’s really creepy having a bit of unknowable crust float out of one astronaut’s mouth and over into yours; you catch all kinds of colds and social diseases and stuff. That’s why they started to quarantine the space dudes and dudesses when they returned to Earth so they could vacuum the crackers and chips and bread and pretzel crumbs out of all the bodily crevices. And it’s not just food — there’s stray body mold floating around up there, nose snot droplets, loose saliva, dandruff, smegma, toe jam, head cheese, sweat drips, liquid farts, body lice — and each word spoken to you up there comes with its own moist envelope of bodily fluids clinging to each syllable. . . it’s like endlessly making love to unbathed strangers in all their wrong body bits.”

“I’m going to sleep now. You should write that down.”

“Okay, love. Sweet dreams.”

weightlessness – foto by Smith


mouse mates

Monday, December 27th, 2010

cat kill – foto by Smith

Me and Mandycat have something in common. We’re both mouse catchers. Her catch this morning is the foto above.

Mine’s a different story. Took the empty dishes out to the kitchen and as I get ready to rinse them, I see a small gray fur mass trying unsuccessfully to jump out of the sink. I spray the mouse with water with one hand to keep it disoriented while I reach for a jar with the other. I easily trap the mouse only to be caught myself with “Now what?” I can’t kill it in cold blood — the poor thing’s frightened and wet and I know how it feels because I’ve been there myself. I briefly consider giving it to Mandycat, but that’s the same as me killing it. So even though my leg’s hurting, I walk it down three flights of stairs to toss it outside, but stop because throwing a wet mouse out into the freezing cold is something I very definitely would not want done to me, so I take it on down to the basement and let it go. I figure there’re three floors between it and us and the first floor has four cats and even if it gets back up here our cat will kill it. But at least for this moment, my hands are bloodless — the rest is up to fate and chance.

fate and chance – foto by Smith



Monday, December 27th, 2010

Digital collage by Lady K


The heart is not an endless reservoir
The heart is a rusty tank
The heart has ventricles
The heart has rusty ventricles
The heart creaks with belief again
The heart creaks with disbelief
The heart creaks with suspension of belief
The heart is a rusty tank
The heart is a rusty tank with leaks

Poetry is the word of the world come to the poet
Poetry is the word come to you
Talk is weak tea
Poetry is a message from Gods
Poets are messengers from God
Poetry is the gelatin of your ego mold
Poetry is a jail you pour your soul in concrete

The best part of you is a jail
The best part of you is locked up
The best part of you is a thumbprint in your head

There is a ghost of yourself of which you just have a thumbprint
A ghost of yourself of which you just have clues
A ghost of yourself that leaves intimations in the falling of your whims
Who is your best self but a self who condemns
Who is your best self but an infinitely refined judge of an asymptote
Who is your best self but something that is touching
some walls of which you have only intimations and whims

-Lady K, December 2010



Monday, December 27th, 2010


I am a telephone calling a light bulb.
I am not the light, I call the light.
I see the light for I am illuminated.
I have a mouth that rings.

I have nipples. The door knows knocks.
The door knows knocks by virtue of being a door.
The window shakes because of interstitial mistakes.
The window is a witness to the interstitial.
The window is a witness to the needed caulk of consciousness.

If I am always ecstatic, am I a reliable window?
If I am always ecstatic, I am a ringing telephone.
A telephone’s function is to ring, but not to ring ceaselessly.
A telephone must wait at times.

The sussurations of things are their blessed interstitial meanings.
The shaking of things lets things breathe.
Things that breathe hold life outside our assumed conception.
A telephone, for example, is soul’d.
Mechanical metaphors for an interlocking reality.
So reality can carry itself when we leave
to witness into existence groves of trees.

-Lady K


merry xmas

Sunday, December 26th, 2010

merry xmas – fotos by Smith


Phone Light – Christmas 2010

Sunday, December 26th, 2010

phone light



Man-cat vignette

Saturday, December 25th, 2010

Mandycat circulated back and forth from the living room to the dining room hinting at the kitchen.

“Like Lassie, she’s trying to lead us to the food,” Smith said.

“She thinks it’s that time again,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “I put down my footstool and put down my slippers and she assumes I’m going to feed her.”

“It’s the dance between cat and man.”

“And the man always loses.”

“But is it a competition?” I asked. “Or is it a dance?”

“Both, both. With the man losing. It’s a metaphor for man vs. woman; man always loses.”

“So, kitty cat, are you happy now,” Smith asked Mandy, “or do you want food?”


color clode

Saturday, December 25th, 2010

danger level red – foto by Smith

Department of Homeland Security

Neo-con clones divided by intellectual clowns
equal same thing

Built on ancient base
we flow from limbic lizard:
feed fuck fight flee

danger level orange – foto by Smith


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