lying lamb

March snow – foto by Smith

March is the Cruelest Month

They say it is spring;
been so twelve days straight.
But wait —
spring is warm sun, blue skies,
so why all these low level lies?
Started off fine
then went wrong wrong way way down down the line
58° 58° 40° 40° 32° 33° 29°
31° 32° 36° 37° 39°
Where’s spring’s upper 50s glam,
its in like a lion, its out like a lamb
instead of this foul weather lying lion scam
of snow and blow and ice not nice
and rain and pain and cold again?
Two days sun
the rest undone
in old cold below a sunless sky
and the icy gray constant constant clouds bring.
Believe me, I ain’t happy with this thing
which is why such a shitty song I sing.

— Smith, 3-31-2011

more March snow – foto by Smith

not a lot I know, but some

Lady K working in old Anna Arnold t-shirt – foto by Smith

Constant Compromise

Old chair squeaks beneath my weight
unsure of my need in the night

I fear neither worth of wait
nor need of light

I put one foot in foot of the other
the other in front of the one

If we have to, as we have had to,
and we want to, we will

— Smith, 1974 revised 2004

~ ~ ~

Not a lot I know, but some.

Two offs don’t make an on.

You want to know the how of the now just ask the right animal “How now, brown cow?”

Nature versus nurture, free will versus fate, what difference does it make? Still gotta sleep. Still gotta wake. Still have to endure the in-between price of pace it takes.

Be faux flesh dream holy hologram programmed offworld to belabor same; again, what difference does it bring?? Even if my song’s pre-sung, it’s still my first sing.

Lightline – foto by Smith

cat scan man

cat scan – foto by Smith

Had a cat scan (X-ray computed tomography) this morning from eyeball to clavicle. They shot me up first with iodine dye, and I knew they’d hit my vein immediately when I got that old metallic taste on my tongue — when tang hits tongue, you’re know you’re on.

Still have tongue tang and slight head glow hour later, like something inside radiating warmth outward, perhaps exacerbated by my bicycle ride back from the hospital.

Didn’t know the injected dye was iodine until I got home and Googled it; but now that I know, I swear I can smell it, and taste it too — the smell’s been stained in my past brain because I had a lot of iodine poured on my torn flesh in my adventurous youth.

Don’t normally share this poem but figure it fits here.

Junkie Luv

My eyes slither open, shut
In golum time my tongue
Rasps brown lizards
As I hiss my want of you
In careful solitude
O my preciousss

Sleep whispers soft leavings
On my lids my head nods
Nods my precious
These fingers numb in spite
The clash of needle
And the floor

— Smith, 1973

premise – foto by Smith

f or f or f or f

Judgement – foto by Smith

Limbic low old brain . . .
fight or flight or feed or fuck
pleasures less, not gain

— Smith, 3-27-2011

Che 1963 – foto by Smith

both fotos taken at Deering Vintage. Tremont OH


Would like to run to my friends
& ring their bells, and tell them
I wish for it all to be

That it is not for granted.

That we can sit on the sofa
& appreciate each other
without feeling any quirkinesses.

I’d like to ooze a sea of goodwill
and comfort out my skin.
Yes, out my skin–to just radiate it.

Because to try to speak it
unless it flows naturally oozing outwards
is to be confounded
or to trip over
my intent.

Would like to take every corner
as I meet it but not in advance,
but in advance in some ways.

Would like a superposition of intent
and presence–
would like to anticipate
but also to react
in real time.

Would like to never feel shame
but always forgive myself.

Would like to not feel stilted.

“Do you feel I am reserved?”
I asked someone.

“Oh, a little,” she said.

And I thought it is because
I am not gushing over her
except for moments that I rush her.

In moments that I rush her
I am on a raft that is carrying me
in that moment, which is not exactly
like a previous episode’s moment
when I did not rush and gush,
and when there was no raft.

Because sometimes there is a raft.

Sometimes, though, just the memory
of a raft.

And sometimes you want the raft
to be very big–ideally all the time–
and you want to carry
the other’s consciousness with you
on the raft and let them see
how it is you are rushing and gushing
and wouldn’t it be nice
to rush and gush




There’s this nausea yet
a threshold of satisfaction
in sloth.

And there’s the greater calling
of the sun rise sky outside,
the birds, the filigree of trees
and this promise
through the window.

There’s me,
clicking the keyboard,
inside, on the sofa.

There’s my husband’s clicking
on the chair

There’s the cat’s complete comfort
now she has eaten.

I think,
were I to eat and cook,
that would make me happy,
but that would just be
for the duration
of eating and cooking.

And cooking
is a temporary thing
because it costs
money and time.

Am wanting to travel,
am wanting to create,
am wanting time, time, time
to relax.

Am wanting time
to read.

Am wanting things to
speed up
and slow down.


Wiccan wed and wonder fed

Lady K 2005 – foto by Smith

Wrote this to my wife on our wedding day.

Get Me to the Witch on Time

I’m smitten
with the kitten
who scratched
my inner itchin’

tied me to
the loving post

free range
to ring
with me

I’m Wiccan wed
and wonder fed

I better butter be
married 2006.18.3

— Smith, 3-18-2006

Married five years nine days now. A few folk felt we’d last just a sleepover or two due to our 27 year age difference — but I’m cool with that because we beat Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart’s gap by a year . . . and it ain’t bad when you beat Bogie.

Six months unmarried, we went to a Wiccan Priestess and bound our binds using my dead mother’s thin gold wedding band and a used matching one for me from a downtown pawn shop — put it on when we bought it and it ain’t been off since.

Cool to be married by a witch.

Cooler still to be married to Lady.

What a wild strange trip it be.

private eye me 2011 – foto by Smith

House of Seven Veils

I’m insane as hell & not going to take it anymore – foto by Smith

House of Seven Veils

A so-so haiku
is a sad thin frail thing
lies there lumpy, lame

It’s not just gumballs
and fruit juice, not all Pepsi
and popcorn but pain

It’s seep and creep weep
down to one cup of coffee
and no tokes of grass

Ghosts in the drop cloth
with holes hanging out of place
life unrolled, unplayed

Life, leaf, sun, season
these four of seven veils
link all lives to one

They say not doing
is doing in distant done
singing song unsung

Done’s but distant dream
it’s doing that’s the essence
trying is my scheme

— Smith, 3-26-2011

swan song – foto by Smith

art fart report

Full Circle Art Show at Doubting Thomas Gallery – foto by Smith

Have three pieces in the Full Circle Art Show curated by Chelsie Michelle Barile at the Doubting Thomas Gallery.

I’m slowly reintegrating myself into the art scene. Before Lady and I split the country in 2006 for three years, I was a recognized player — one of Cleveland’s bad boys of art. But it’s amazing how quickly I became marginal in our absence; none of the younger crop of artists knows me. They were probably in art school last time I had a newspaper review; we had 6 newspaper articles in 2006 — seems if you want a lot of good press, all you have to do is leave the country.

Had 6 pieces in a great show last year and one piece in another. Will have a piece in a show this May, and I’m setting up a major show probably titled The Two Dead Smiths Two Live Smiths Show sometime between December and March which should open a few folks eyes. It’ll be dead mom Mother Dwarf (1926-2005), suicided brother Cat (1957-1987), live wife Lady K (1972) and me (1946).

Lady and I’ve decided to self-publish my memoir within the next six months as well, so this could be a good 12 months creatively. The memoir which covers my 1st 60 years of strife is titled

Stations of the Lost
a true tale of
armed robbery, stolen cars, outsider art, mutant poetry,
underground publishing, robbing the cradle, and leaving the country

by Smith & Lady

As the Captain Kirk clone said in Galaxy Quest: “Never give up! Never surrender!”

Caged Dice by Smith – foto by Smith

Buddha’s Beads by Smith – foto by Smith

detail of Buddha’s Beads by Smith – foto by Smith

backside of The Great War by Smith – foto by Smith

frontside of The Great War by Smith – foto by Smith

Full Circle Art Show at Doubting Thomas Gallery – foto by Smith


dem bones – foto by Smith

Things to never say #1: “Well, it can’t get worse.”


Wrote this senryu two years ago:

63 Years of Wear & Tear

Pain walking, pain not
Pain sitting in pain pain’s lot
Pain sleeping, pain knot

Well, it done did gone and went way worse. Wrote this lame blame this morning:


I am
lurching through the night
bone grinding against bone
spurs sparring spurs
cartilage cushion crushed
I limp up
lump down
lurch left
list right
all pain in pain of pain with pain
pain awake
pain asleep that makes me wake
pain standing
pain sitting
pain in sex
pain without sex
pain in text
pain in talk
pain in treks
pain in bulk
they always say “no pain, no gain”
which means I must have
one hellish train of gain
planetary planes of gain
bunches of bad game gain
pure unplain gain
great grating gain
straining gain
stained gain
mirthless girthless gristled gain
bad breaking brain gain
cough awful exploding gain
tear in eye gain
no scope or hope in future poke of lessening pain
grimy gain way off the aim
in my long wrong way fight
to lack of lite
what can I say
in this lame writ lip
severe osteoarthritis of the hip
and I thought I was so cool too
but no hep cat’s hip to beaten tip
of meatless meeting zip
in bone groan zone
for dark is the day
too short the night
this unfair affair
this just not right
which clouds my eye
which dims my light
which fogs my brain
in pains full fright
leaving me angry

For six and a half years I had hope I could walk my pain away, or exercise it out, or hot soak it well, or simply rest it right; but last week the doctor and the x-ray said no — there’s not only no cartilage left between hip joint and leg ball but I’ve actually ground the bone away so every step bone grates against bone sending massive pain to brain.

Somehow the knowing I couldn’t fix it myself dropped me into minor depression, even made the pain worse because now my mind knows it’s bone scraping against bone with each movement of standing sitting sleeping walking.

But now there’s hope — vague of course, but perhaps a hint of light at the end of my dark funnel. My socialist Medicare coverage began this month and now I have an assessment session in 15 days and they’re talking hip replacement so I may find the what when why where of not being here but rather some better there where I can fair care, mes frères et soeurs.

And whatever else ensues, I’m asking the doc for some serious habit-forming narcotic pain pills to ease the operation wait.

This all started when my overweight mother collapsed on the floor September 2004 due to a blood infection in her leg and I tried to help her up. Unfortunately I picked her up wrong because I couldn’t bring myself to lift her properly from behind since I’d be grabbing her tits so lifted awkwardly off center and damaged myself.

Been in ever increasing pain since twenty-four hours a day seven days a week. Especially after walking 10 countries on three continents for 31 months with backpack weight slowly wearing away my ever decreasing protective cartilage until each step ground bone against bone creating bone meal that won’t heal. Call me Bone-Head because I always thought it was just damaged muscle so kept on trucking.

But the heck with all that. Fix the flux, go through the pain of replacement and rehab, learn to walk again, lighten my load and take those dancing lessons I promised Lady if ever I healed.

Here’s my chance to get my life back and be me again.

pain is just skin deep – foto by Smith