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Archive for February, 2011

a simple machine

Saturday, February 19th, 2011

2 as 1 – foto by Smith

A Simple Machine

No mangos from the shadow
No ghostings from the closed
But kisses for your shoulder
I certainly do enclose

I dance about your shadow
Re-hang in velvet drape
Your renovated altar
Your greatness to relate

From former fog I scurry
To your two as one
What gestates in ambiguity
Becomes footnote to bronze

— Steven B. Smith, 2005
(to my wife, 4 months before we wed)

I & Eye – foto by Smith


To Every Man Who Seeks Cosmic Funk

Friday, February 18th, 2011

cosmic ride – foto by Smith

To Every Man Who Seeks Cosmic Funk

I tie illusory lie to flux flower
Like Lotus flow which rises pristine from dark and dirty water
Like Lotus flux which blooms and seeds simultaneously
The Cosmos is and isn’t is
Was and wasn’t was
Won’t and will be will be
Cradle and grave in deathless life
Succor, sucker, sorter, seeker
Holographic halo
That happily helps and hopes you’re well
While simultaneously not caring
Even crushing and collapsing
With indifference due diligence
In simple angle sans anger
The Cosmos is cosmic comic
A ventriloquist’s mime
A virtual mine
A more than maybe mind
That can help or hurt or heel
Whichever reel real you reveal
Is up or down to you
Ask, and ye shall receive, maybe
Don’t ask, get got anyway
But most of all smile
Grin through grim
For whatever it is
It plays
Has a sense of humor
Responds to rumor
So respect your say and sway
And stay okay

— © Steven B. Smith, 2-17-2011

Everyman asked Lady and I to write something about the Cosmos for his upcoming Recycled Rainbow Cosmos Gathering this September in eastern Ohio

Lady gave him metaphysic flow with her We are the Cosmos, so I offered the philosophic verse above.

trinity – assemblage & foto by Smith



Thursday, February 17th, 2011

Written for Recycled Rainbow – Cosmos Gathering

We are the cosmos. You are me are we are this house, this street, all these people, animals. It’s one thing with moving parts. Movement is connected by infinite little strings, everything to everything else and all of it is conscious.

Perspective matters. If I make a realization that I am not I, that I am connected, if I really know this to be true, and if I meditate on this and operate under this assumption all day long, wonderful weird synchronicities happen.

OK, so here’s other stuff I found out–perhaps you already know it on a conscious/mystical/practical level–I don’t want to lecture but I do.

If I shift my perspective and bring it back to my ego self, my understanding collapses and I just become a part, a cog–deaf and blind to sign.

Chaos is really interconnection. It’s difficult–numbers matter. The monad, dyad. Fibonacci. Follow the synchronicities in the symbols you encounter–they will lead you through a mystical detective story that has personal meaning and universal relevance.

Creativity–the cosmos wants it. It wants you to speak, it wants you to interact with it. It is you–it is living. Creativity is a high purpose, the purpose of Cosmos.

Ethics matter. If you are to become one with the whole, the whole wants to know that you have a compact with it, that you are reliable through and through, that you are asking things for not only personal reasons, but for a wider caring too.

Yet the Cosmos is loving. It loves us. This is the underlying water, the water that lifts all boats. You can even reason with it. You can pray (I do about an hour of typed prayers daily.) You can ask for things for yourself. I like to ask for it to give me right perspective, for enough material comfort to be OK, and constantly for situations for my loved ones to improve.

You can send out a question to the Cosmos and you’ll get an answer back. You can ask for a solution to a problem, and usually it will send one. You are part of it–and it is a gigantic quantum computer.

Visualization matters. Having good heart for everyone and everything matters. Remembering constantly that the person over “there” who you don’t even know is just another grain of yourself on this visual plane–that if you look at each other, it is the Cosmos looking at itself through different eyeholes–that realization matters.

If you ask for a specific result you might not get it, but you might get its equivalent somehow else.

Integrity is just so important. Right feeling. Proper conduct.

Mindfulness matters. Noting mentally every shift in noise and how it relates to what you are thinking at the time is an excellent way to sync in and realize we are one.

Sometimes you might get up from the couch and suddenly the traffic noise outside matches your every footstep, turn and thought.

This is being awake–recognizing the ballet, joining in the ballet.

Quantum interactions are not just quantum interactions–they have repercussions on a visual, macro level.

So you can be in a state where you are not recognizing the connection–you can break away from the cloth–this is the unawakened state.

You can also be in a state where you are in the flow, where your being resonates with the big being. This is being awakened.

You can relax and slumber if you like. You don’t have to be awake all the time.

Being under the sky helps. Visualization helps. The flower–after I am done with my yoga breathing exercises, sometimes I am lying down on the floor and relaxing, imagining myself as a flower opening.

Breathing helps. I am trying to breath deeply all the time, and with each breath, I think, “I am breathing this reality in and out, I am this reality,” etc.



buzz nuzz fuzz

Wednesday, February 16th, 2011

wee nuzz – foto by Smith

Love Line

Bees buzz
We nuzz
Times fuzz

— © Steven B. Smith, 2.16.2011

time fuzz – foto by Smith


drown brown frown

Tuesday, February 15th, 2011

space ship church – foto by Smith

Dread Lock

It’s one of those days
where dread doom looms
hanging over my head
like a trip to the principal’s office
only a Cosmic Principle
and it’s not demerits
or staying after class
I’m worried about
but some shadow
lurking in the sun
some payment due
for a forgotten sum
and I can feel my heart
and the acids in my gut
and I pat my empty pockets for luck
availing nothing
no excuse note from dead mom
no dog that ate my poem
no home hearth heart warmth
to deflect the arrow
for my unknown error
I can’t wait to go to bed
12 hours from now
to sleep this awry away
or maybe I’ll call
a friend
who’ll get me stoned
so I can drown
this brown frown
but until then
I’m sorry
but worry woe
weakens me.

— © Steven B. Smith, 2.13.2011

snow glow- foto by Smith



Monday, February 14th, 2011

I want to send you truth–that yeah, ok, maybe I’m that broke bird that you thought you’d feed in a box and I’d fly away.

But I was a charred heart, not a bird. Or maybe birds are hearts with wings…

My charred heart crash landed at your door. Go away, your welcome mat said, but you let me in.

Oh, you limp, and I pump meekly.

But that’s not such a nice love poem–giving you the scraps of this trash canned, crash landed lady.

I’d just like to say, that it’s more than this charred heart. That this charred heart is a thing worth having, a thing that has value and a thing that shouldn’t have put itself in a trash can.

I can feel this charred heart. Right at its bottom end against my sternum. That’s where I can feel it a bit. It’s like a vacuum with an itch.

So you got this thing that’s like a sucker from an alien or something and it glommed on to your head when you opened the door. That’s one way of looking at it.

Cuz I don’t really believe in a valentine, or a heart shaped heart. I believe more in the bloody meat thing. Or a mechanical heart, I can see that.

This heart insists on pure audience. This heart insists on truth. This heart insists on transcending minor human failings.

This heart would like to shape itself into one of those two dimensional hearts on the back of a cereal box, one of the general mills kind, like a heart that says cheerio and that you would know that the authorities are good, not twisted.

This heart has eyeballs, eyeballs for purity, but is self-conscious from too much thinking. This heart aims to crawl some kind of asymptote like a twisted worm.

This heart piles it on. This heart wants to say stuff, pure assertions without smirks arising from the trash can of explanation and misunderstandings.

This heart wants to incinerate itself and grow again, a phoenix, for you.



love alone stands bare

Monday, February 14th, 2011

Snow Lady – fotos by Smith

Cain in Isolation

There lies a sorrow beneath this yellow
Odor which rises on two legs and mocks

What little man remains behind. Shallow
Selfish greed of love and lover’s talk

Of trust in self made shadows mere shadow
Of hallowed spell disguised by holy frock.

Varied the means of divination, certain
Though time and dark demons conspire, despair

By this hand shall never rend the curtain
Nor set wraiths cull delusions of lone fear.

What is, is, beyond lamenting, Canaan
Isolation. Love and love alone stands bare.

— © Steven B. Smith, 1975

Threshhold Lady – foto by Smith



Sunday, February 13th, 2011

sweet 2 – foto by Smith

Rather gray within today, so I’ll blog a gentleness from the past.

The Heart as Arsonist

Sure the kindling,
but as well the wood.
The place as such
and substance
of the matter.
Amounts of time to flicker,
flame in bright arrogance,
become fuel to continuity,
faded maturation.

It is not wonder
yet is
why wolves, weres and lovers
lie dreaming before fires
fire places
It is the melancholy
of the cycle calling.
Warmed atavisms
consumed in life
in love of rebirth.
The remembrance
of werewolves wanting wings.

All these
the core past caring
the fire is
is love.
The spark
to kindle the passion
then human the substance
to weather completion
this this is love.

— © Steven B. Smith, 1975

love fractals – foto by Smith


philosophical blues

Saturday, February 12th, 2011

mere man – foto by Smith

Had such success with yesterday’s sexual blues I thought we’d move up the body from crotch to brain and post a philosophical blues — the only sly sexual reference in this one is “I have no honey for spreading”.

White Boy Blues

Pain from one end to the other
Plagued by a black cloud of druthers
It’s the “I Ain’t Got No White Boy Blues”

Though I got no honey for spreading
And there ain’t no money attending
Yet I ain’t got no White Boy Blues

For I’ve roof over rising
A warm bed abiding
Friends fond and affirming
And a past that’s worth hiding
So I can’t get no White Boy Blues

Possessions don’t taunt me
Though lessons they’ve taught me
Like inner, not outer be
And better to let be
The quicker to be free
The taught me do teach me
I ain’t got no White Boy Blues

Yes, it’s a sadness I’m lacking
Or life’s licking I’m liking
But that’s why I got those
“I Ain’t Got No White Boy Blues”

— © Steven B. Smith, 2004

warm bed abiding – foto by Smith



Saturday, February 12th, 2011


I want to clench when
I want to clench
I want to let go

I’m waiting at a stoplight
under a bridge
of a suburban highway

Hard bit froth in an Ohio February,
the materiality of crap
on concrete

The silent exhaust
of the cars ahead
in my lane

My wet breaths
inside the home
in my car

It’s cold, and I clench

Rafts of cars above

The sea
around the sounds
volume rises on the static
coaxing wider ears

I’m under the bridge
waiting for the light to change
and kindling like a radio station
coming into focus by itself I
look around me

fluff and groom
on the shelf arising
from pillars supporting
the highway, a functional
created by
an interstitial area

Moisture stains
run down the pillars
of the concrete bridge–
spills enviable
by any urban artist
in their aesthetically chinging
symmetries and asymmetries
like commenting, “Oh, yes,
this is what it is
when the rapture of the senses
under a concrete bridge…”

I want to run a bit

Were I a spill
is that it for me?
could I ever collect myself?
Could I only spill once?
And how would I best spill?
Seep into the road,
drip onto a shelf,
or make pillars known?

Make pillars known as legs
and fingers holding mind?

Pigeons fluff and huddle
in our interstitial areas,
the armpits of infrastructure

Pigeons, color of concrete
brought into relief
by their shuddering huddling,
mudded motion of the monad
sitting inside itself



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