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WALKING ON THIN ICE

Poetry at Pat’s in the Flats: 2nd seasonal session


2nd Seasonal Session
Poetry at Pat’s in the Flats #2
poster design by Jean Brandt of Brandt Gallery
foto Smith

Our 2nd seasonal session of Poetry at Pat’s in the Flats floats fluxes flexes and flows THIS Sunday August 26th at Pat’s in the Flats from 11am to 3pm.

6 poets, at least 1 music group, and — if our 1st session last May is any indication — a dynamite open mic set . . . with ever-humble me as your bubble-blowing master of ceremonies, i.e. emcee.

Doors open at 11am. Sandwiches available at 11:30am. Part 1 of open mic at noon. Music 12:30. Featured poets 12:45; more music 2pm; open mic 2:15 (time permitting); leave at 3pm. 2233 West Third Street, Cleveland, Ohio.

Poets Mary Weems, Russ Vidrick, Tom Orange, Steve Thomas, Milenko Budimir, and Shelley Chernin with music provided by Malphonia: Joe Milan on accordion and vocals, Steven Mastroianni on euphonium, trumpet, vocals, the stylings of Milenko Budimir on Micro-Percussion.

Here are the bios — more info than you’d ever want to consume.

~ ~ ~

Pat’s in the Flats calls itself a “Working-man bar by day, blue-collar rock-club at night.” From an online user review by M.M., “Pat’s, and Pat herself, are Cleveland institutions. I’ve been coming here on and off since the 1980s and have had some of the coolest times of my life here. If you look up at the record covers posted on the wall you’ll see 20-25 years of underground Cleveland music history, right there. And then if you cast your eyes downward you’re likely to see a couple of the people who are on those record covers, in their 10-20 years older incarnations, staggering around with beers in hand. Pat has met all those people in person, served them drinks, in some cases gone to their funerals. She’s truly the grande old dame of Cleveland punk and, now that Mitzi of Mitzi’s has passed on, probably the last great lady of the 1900’s Cleveland bar scene.” — patsintheflats.com.

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Mary E. Weems, Ph.D is a poet, playwright, author, performer, and imagination-intellect theorist. She is currently the Poet Laureate of Cleveland Heights (April 2007 – April 2009). Dr. Weems is the author and/or co-editor of several books including Cleveland Poetry Scenes: A Panorama & Anthology (Bottom Dog Press, 2008), Poetry Power (Silvermoon Press, 2003), her educational text Public Education and the Imagination-Intellect: I Speak from the Wound in My Mouth (Peter Lang, 2003), Working Hard for the Money: America’s Working Poor in Stories, Poems, and Photos (Bottom Dog Press, 2002), and a book of poems An Unmistakable Shade of Red and the Obama Chronicles (Bottom Dog Press, 2008). uncrownedcommunitybuilders.com/person/mary-e-weems.

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Shelley Chernin is a freelance researcher, writer, and editor of legal reference books. She lives in Russell, Ohio (aka Novelty, proving that the US Postal Service once had a sense of irony). Her poems have appeared in Scrivener Creative Review, Rhapsoidia, What I Knew Before I Knew: Poems from the Pudding House Salon-Cleveland, the Heights Observer, the 2010 through 2012 Hessler Street Fair poetry anthologies and the Cuyahoga Burning edition of Big Bridge. She received the 2nd Place award in the 2011 Hessler Street Fair Poetry Contest and Honorable Mentions in the Akron Art Museum’s New Words Poetry Contest in 2009 and 2010. Her chapbook, The Vigil, was just published by Crisis Chronicles. Yes, of course, she plays the ukulele. Who doesn’t?

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Russ Vidrick (the sad-eyed poet of the highlands) is the quiet mainstay of the myriad poetry & experimental sound communities of Cleveland, Ohio and has been for over twenty years.
He is an uncomplicated man. He says that his poems land on his head, often in the early morning while he enjoys his first cup of coffee and his first cigar.
In addition to featuring at various venues in Cleveland and out of town, for the past decade he has hosted a monthly open-mic reading at Brandt Gallery, located in the historic Tremont neighborhood of Cleveland.

Here’s what some folks have to say about Russell Vidrick:

“A good poker player knows there are not separate hands, just one long game. Likewise good poets know they are only writing one poem. Russell Vidrick has perfected this in that his poem appears as equally separate poems of varying length and yet when strung together are seamlessly one poem. A voice writers spend a lifetime searching for comes to Vidrick naturally.” (Jean Brandt, Atty./Gallery Owner/Poet

“Russ brought a level of mid-American authenticity to the big stage in NYC — the legendary Bowery Poetry Club — and showed everyone who matters were their roots ought to be. His self-possession in a venue more known for its histrionics than its depth won the hearts of the New York crowd.” George Wallace, NYC poet

“Vinegar-blooded yet with a sweet line of melancholy, the poetry of Russ Vidrick is intense and bewildering, strangely beautiful and very, very moody. Russ ain’t your grandad’s poet of choice, but he is mine.” (David Smith, San Franscisco poet)

“Over the years I have asked poets to work up a collective works with me, a twofer chapbook I call a duet. Most give me a stare and say “what for?” I have a few who said yes and one was Russ. We did a happy collaboration, picking each others poems and printing up DUELLING POETS — a complete success. Russ is that rarity: An egoless poet who makes cooperation and community a reality.” (Jim Lang, Cleveland poet)

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Malphonia is Joe Milan on accordion and vocals, Steven Mastroianni on euphonium, trumpet, vocals, and the stylings of Milenko Budimir on Micro-Percussion.

The eight-month-old embryo that is Malphonia uses notes, tones and aural colors to paint a palette of harmonies and melodies of life.

They have performed far and wide throughout the Tremont area (and Lakewood) to largely critical acclaim, taking enraptured audiences on a musical tour from the Mediterranean and South America and back again to the good ol’ U.S. of A. The secret to their addictive sound is their acoustic, a-electrical performances, always in a casual, rock-star neutral environment.

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Tom Orange, Ph.D Since 2000, Tom Orange has taught literature and writing at a variety of colleges and universities, including Georgetown, George Washington, Vanderbilt, Cleveland State, Tri-C and (starting this fall) Case Western Reserve. His chapbook publications include 25 Poems (Washington, DC: The Interrupting Cow, 2004), A Day in Switzerland (Schaffhausen [Switzerland]: Dusie, 2006), and American Dialectics (Oxford, OH: Slack Buddha, 2008). He works at Brandt Gallery in Tremont and is an active curator and performer in the local rock and experimental music scenes.

~ ~ ~

Steve Thomas: i was born at 12:35 am june 26th, one of 3 brothers and 1 sister. after that everything gets foggy till i became the father of a boy then girl which really clarified things for me. and so we have learned from each other ever since and during all of it i occasionally wrote stories and poems…which makes me a lucky guy.

~ ~ ~

Miles Budimir’s newest chapbook is Departures (2012, Burning River Press). He’s also the author of Rustbelt Romance (2006, deep cleveland press) and a broadside, Missing Albertly (2008, Green Panda Press). His poems have appeared in Red Fez, Poetry Motel, Compost 2010, MoonLit, Artcrimes, The Long Islander, and Muse among others. He pays the bills by working as a philosophy lecturer and freelance technical writer and editor, and resides in the pierogi paradise that is Parma.

Smith: Was born, am living, will die. Poet 49 years, artist 48 years, yada yada yada . . .




Pat’s in the Flats – fotos Smith

A story of juice


Juicy – foto Smith

Juiceless – foto Smith

Go juice – foto Smith

Gone juice – foto Smith

Going juice – foto Smith

Juiced – foto Smith

De-juiced – foto Smith

MY GOOD LUCK CHARMERS

So, I’ve got this photo up on my laptop and whenever I need cheered up, I can just open it and look at it and know immediately that I’ve had an excellent support system for all my life.

Grandma is no longer animating her body, it’s in the ground. I can’t really say that that’s not part of her, because I believe the material world is very much a part of the spiritual world, that the material world is the immediate aspect of the spiritual world.

The body will return to the soil eventually, and some kind of recycling will go on. More life will be made out of her life. More life is being made right now out of her old life. Even this base physical fact can be seen in a very spiritual, moving way.

And Grandma is not just that body in the ground. Grandma is part of everything. Even just sitting here beside me on my couch, I could see how entangled she was/is with The All. She’d fall asleep and my Internet connection would go out–she was that entangled. Out of curiosity, I woke her back up, and the Internet connection came back up.

I think Grandma’s immediate forcefield encompassed much of northeast Ohio, if not the U.S., if not the Universe.

It was tight and heavy and worried at the end of her body-life. She suffered a little bit mentally. She couldn’t hear very well, and the last couple weeks in her body-life she thought someone had said that she was evil because she was Jewish. I find it hard to believe that someone would’ve told her that–I must believe that she was mistaken.

So she’d have episodes the last couple years of her body-life that were kind of like this, worried at times. Or alternately, she’d be ecstatic.

Fortunately for much of the time I experienced her, she was ecstatic.

I feel a lightening across northeast Ohio, that her worry bound body is now released and maybe she’s just experiencing bliss now. I sure hope so. And I’ve gotta believe that her influence–some of the information carried in her–penetrated more than just her bodily area, and is still carried in the environment. I think this is how soul and identity can work past body death, physically. She was/is just so entangled.

I’ve got Smith as my immediate support system now, and the rest of my family and friends. And myself more, now. And Mandy. But I look at that picture of Grandma and Grandpa and know that they loved me (love me?) not only because I was a part of their family, but because I was a child. They would have loved me even were I not part of their family; they were/are extremely generous, especially when they were middle-aged and adopted several children. And Grandma made sure to have any little kid who came into her presence feel all the attention of the center of the world.

I feel very much that Grandpa especially is cognizant as a spirit and has retained much of his earth-body identity. He visited me in my sleep a couple nights ago. It was the longest dream with him I can remember. He talked with me and made me a meal, tea and soup. I looked at the tea for a while–Red Rose brand. So much detail and color.

He also fed me some grass. He bought a bunch of grass from a waitress and had me eat half of it. Then he said to the waitress, “Here, you take this and use it.” But she just took it and put it back in the cupboard for the next customer.

Grandpa got a bit assertive, really wanting the waitress to have that grass for herself. He got up and went towards the cupboard, but I intercepted him and we danced and hugged for a while.

I wonder at the symbolism of it in all of its nooks and crannies. I figure he is telling me that he is feeding the grass, now, that his body and grandma’s body are feeding the grass. But why have us eat it? Is there some hay to be made from the cycle of life? Is that what he’s telling me? Maybe to make sure I get all I can get from it? I hope I can see them both again soon in my dreams. I relish that he fed and tended to me.

~ Lady

the trees they are dancing


Moon stone – foto Smith

I’ve been jamming with Peter Ball 10 years, his music, my words. Have maybe 150 sound excursions to dip into; and of them all, this is my favorite, the single song I’ve no regret — High Wind Whether.

And it’s true too . . . looking out our 3rd floor apartment window one angry night I watched the wind whip the winter bare branches about the sky as moonpeek leaked past the dark scurry clouds.

High Wind Whether

The trees they are dancing
Wind playing the tune
In sky tall prancing
Beneath a full moon

Clouds chant the chorus
Direction and sound
In song sung just for us
We being earth bound

Romance abounds, adventure exists
Just look around at all that you’ve missed

Our feet stuck to dirt
Our hearts leap for air
With happiness we flirt
And shirk our despair

Yes the trees they are dancing
Leaping for the moon
My soul sky chancing
Laughing in loon

Romance abounds, adventure exists
Just look around at all that you’ve missed

— Smith, 4.2011

Peter and I have an odd process. I write the words, bicycle over to his place, don headfones, stand before a mic, he starts playing music I’ve never heard to which I try to fit my words and timing, so my main vocal is a one-time leap into the unknown. Peter can’t play me the music first because he often doesn’t know what he’s going to play until he plays it. He usually goes back and adds more music tracks and sometimes I play with myself and add a couple backup vocals. Peter’s music determines my vocals and my vocals affect his music. Strange process, yet it works more often than not, which is surprising considering I’m frequently off-key, off-time, and my vocals usually sound like I gargled with ground glass due to the doc removing part of my vocal cord when he cut out my cancer 7 yrs ago.

For more Ball & Smith reverbnation.com/mutantsmith. Music, mix, recording Peter Ball; words, vocals Smith.


High wind weather – foto Smith

I arrived 9 yrs after d.a. levy’s suicide

Cleveland’s three best known poets are Hart Crane (who lived here early in his life), Langston Hughes (who lived here early in his life) and d.a. levy (who lived here all 26 years of his life). Two other prominent Cleveland poets would be Russell Atkins (born 1926 and still here) and Daniel Thompson (1935-2004). I can’t think of any current Cleveland poets of similar fame, but many of similar talent.

I came to Cleveland in 1977, nine years after levy blew his brains all over his apartment wall with a shotgun at the age of 26. He was basically hounded to death by the Cleveland police and politicians because of his liberal views, his pro-marijuana stance, his poetry, and for reading a minor’s poem which contained the word *fuck* to the minor and a bunch of other folk in the basement of a church with the cops present. They busted him for contributing to the delinquency of a minor — or more accurately (per Wikipedia) “In 1966 he was indicted for distributing obscene poetry to minors. He was arrested again in 1967, and his pressing materials confiscated, prompting a benefit reading on May 14, 1967 on the Case Institute of Technology campus which featured such figures as Allen Ginsberg, Tuli Kupferberg and the Fugs.”

It’s amazing how those in power fear poets, or at least used to.

On one level levy’s famous because he killed himself, died young and feisty and not-so-very beautiful but edgy. For a while some folk believed he was murdered by the Cleveland police or politicians, but according to his friends he was always suicidal, as evidenced by some of the titles listed below.

He wrote some very good poems, did rather clumsy cluttered collages and some very fine art, and most importantly was the 1960’s vanguard here for the mimeographed self-publishing poetry revolution. All of his output is available for free re-use by anyone because he always wrote *copyrot* in place of *copyright*.

Some of his better known works are The North American Book of the Dead, Cleveland Undercovers, Suburban Monastery Death Poem, Tombstone as a Lonely Charm, and his publishing of Cleveland’s first underground newspaper The Buddhist Third-Class Junkmail Oracle in 1966-7. In 1968 he also co-edited and wrote for the sole issue of The Marijuana Review.

Here’s an excerpt from a d.a. levy poem I included in Artcrimes #20 (2006):

the soulless men
bullfighters of insignificant stockrooms
mindless phantoms who never possessed a spirit
to gamble with
men with high school television dreams
who cross themselves in rituals of death
who whisper “jesus” before dueling
with their competitors each day
playing war games – becoming policemen
gambling with insanity
they drive their autos
laugh at hippies drink on fridays
go bowling shit on God each day & they die
& they die & they die alone
wrapped in flags
proud of their insanity
& the academic poets
write their cleaned-up dreams for you
pretend it is all beautiful
sitting in a bar
the alcohol confessional
& everyday i sit here
trying to become one of you
after another
trying on those high school dreams
for size
it doesnt work
you dont fit me

– d.a. levy – excerpt from SUBURBAN MONASTERY DEATH POEM

Below are samples from The Buddhist Third-Class Junkmail Oracle and a VERY un-Buddhist letter (the foto above) from a Buddhist temple in California which shows an amazing lack of Buddhist compassion. The Buddhist Third-Class Junkmail Oracle material is courtesy of my musical partner Peter Ball of Apartment One.

This blog is simplistic and shallow because I wasn’t here and didn’t know the man, but do know a few of his friends.

A reprint of SUBURBAN MONASTERY DEATH POEM can be ordered for $5 from Crisis Chronicles Press.






1968 foto of levy by Richard Ceasar heavily manipulated by me
from Artcrimes 20
all fotos or fotos of fotos by Smith

box o books: memoir arrived


Box of books – foto Smith

We received our first review of my memoir from someone who does not know us so has no reason to be gentle. Poet William Merricle wrote: “I’m up to chapter five. People should buy this.”

OK flux, we just got a box of our first 30 copies of “Stations of the Lost & Found” by Smith & Lady today. 15 of them go to friends and press so that leaves 15 for sale at $20.

Because we have so few, we can’t hold books for anyone, so it’s first come, first served. We’ll be ordering another box shortly but it’ll be 3-5 weeks before they arrive, depending on when we order, and due to finances we can’t order until we see if these copies start to sell.

We have 6 known readings between now and December 22, with more probably thrown in. Hopefully these 15 won’t last long. If they start to sell, we’ll order more.

Book is 364 pages, 5.06″ x 7.81″ and covers my life and crimes from 1946-2006. Just published by Lady K’s The City Poetry press.

The only official book reading so far is September 29th at Mac’s Backs at 7pm, which will also feature another book published by Lady’s The City Poetry press: 22 Years by Wendy Shaffer — a fine fine book of poetry by one of Cleveland’s best.

Our first reading is Poetry at Pat’s in the Flats Sunday August 26, 2012 from 11am – 3pm. We’ll bring the books.

It may also be ordered online from CreateSpace at https://www.createspace.com/3903652 for $20 + shipping & handling.

Its FaceBook page with comments and excerpts is facebook.com/StationsLostFound.

Here’s the back cover blurb so you’ll be warned what you’re getting:

“Drug orgies, massive refindings of reality, the acceptance of interdimensions. Errant life scout, cultural adventurer, perception tester, court jester, inner seeker, reality adjuster, flow surfer, servant and searcher of Other.

“Born in Bitterroot, raised on Paradise Prairie, farm boy, car thief, Naval Academy, expelled for dope, society marriage, armed robbery, jail, illegal loft dweller, Artcrimes, rat attacks, overdose, celibate, remarried, expat. Ran from the cops ten times, got away nine.”


My co-author, co-editor, publisher, partner, love, wife Lady K – foto Smith

leaving the train


Time flies – foto Smith

Working the Rail Road

Leaving the train
laying new track
looking to find that 8-fold path
of right view
right thinking
right speech
right action
right livelihood
right diligence
right mindfulness
right concentration
but left instead with wrong
ego want pride
me go stride
so I’m working on not hurting
trying to fly wry
both chasing and releasing the why

Let bad go
Let good go
Let let go
Let go go

— Smith, 8.13.2012


Lady’s shrine to Venus – foto Smith

gal & fellow feedback


is this my Lady’s birth certificate? – foto Smith

These are unsolicited unpaid endorsements — I would have paid for them but I have no money. They are from fellow poets and friends, so that factors in.

~ ~ ~

Dianne Borsenik:
I just received Steven Smith’s/Kathy Smith’s new book in the mail, and what a read! It’s an I-can’t-put-it-down-what-the-heck’s-gonna-happen-next kind of book. I’ve read a LOT of biographies and autobiographies, and this recounting is one of the most fascinating I’ve ever read, by far. I’m highly recommending it!

~ ~ ~

John Burroughs:
Without hesitation or exaggeration, if I could buy only one book this year, Smith and Lady’s *Stations of the Lost and Found* would be it. I read an early draft of the book a couple of years ago and it knocked my shoes and socks off. I said then that I’d trade any of Kerouac’s or Bukowski’s volumes for it in a heartbeat. (And I hear this final version is even better.) Now the book so many of us have been looking forward to all this time is finally available. Get it now.

~ ~ ~

Jack McGuane:
I got it, am reading it, three thumbs up

~ ~ ~

Kelly Boyer Sagert: Was this book hard for you to write?

No, I must have story-teller blood in me because our initial kernel was 20 true short stories I’d already written about some of the wilder moments. I loved writing it with Lady, who by the way has to know more about her husband’s past than any wife alive, especially since she’s read some of my private journals from the 60s and 70s. BUT, what is interesting is now that it’s available to others’ eyes, I’m rereading it and I’m rather taken back at seeing how shallow and selfish and arrogant and weak I was. It wasn’t until I stopped drinking at the age of 45 twenty-one years ago that I slowly began to get a wee bit better at this life living thing.

Kelly Boyer Sagert: Takes courage to share your weaker moments. We often want to talk about the great stuff we’ve done, instead.

Ahhh, it’s ego and the writer disease . . . some of my best material that is the most fascinating to read and to write just happens to be when I’m not my most likable. Have to use the best stuff, even if it casts me in worse light.

~ ~ ~

Lady posted her worries what the badness of my memoir might trigger in reality’s ripples. I just reread it and while it is often disconcerting, it is filled with humor and a desire for goodness. I frequently make myself look bad in my descriptions of my craziness, often come across as amazingly stupid. And the book turns out well in the end . . . it’s a good gone bad gone mostly good again story.

~ ~ ~

Stations of the Lost & Found purchase page: https://www.createspace.com/3903652
$20 + shipping/handling
Stations of the Lost & Found FaceBook page: facebook.com/StationsLostFound


full Smith – foto Smith

Blowhard Blues


Bluesball – foto Smith

Fresh musical fruit . . . written and recorded yesterday, posted today, a platter straight off the patter.

Rather like this one; for a blues, it’s quite happy, friendly, a walk in the talk, not blowhard as much as blowsoft . . . here’s the latest Ball & Smith song Blowhard Blues.

Blowhard Blues

I don’t know what I’m thinking singing blues
Don’t know why I keep singing all these blues
I’m more into growl and groaning
Maybe some mellow moaning
Yet every day I battle, every night I bruise

I don’t know why my eyes are high and low
Or why my large left testicle dropped below
My why of webbed toe walking
Or the why these small feet mocking
Or the well meaning folk who feed me crow

Trying to live my life in a minor key
Stunts the wild harmony inside of me
Got no time for cruising need to get to doing
Blast these blowhard blues to better be

Oh I don’t know why my eyes are high and low
Or why my large left testicle dropped below
My why of webbed toe walking
The why these small feet mocking
Or the well meaning folk who feed me crow

I don’t know where they got this might makes right
Makes this gap twixt them and us such a fright
The weather’s worth the watching
While greed is global swarming
So I use this all as blues as poultice

Trying to live my life in a minor key
Crashes wild harmony inside of me
Got no time for cruising, got to get to doing
Blow these blowhard blues to better be

Don’t know why I’m singing the blues
Don’t know why I’m singing all these blues
I’m more a growl and groaning
Maybe mellow moaning
Yet every day I battle, every night I bruise

Walking home the foghorn calling
Dark and damp early rainy morning

— Smith, 8.10.2012

Had to cut one line from each stanza while recording and chop a chorus and repeat a verse to make it fit; that’s why *poultice* doesn’t rhyme with anything . . . used to rhyme with *justice*.

Those last two lines just slipped out as the music moved away so I’ll take them as a grain to accrete a new poem around.

Music, mix, recording Peter Ball of Apartment One; words and voice me.

49 more Ball & Smith jams for free download and listening at ReverbNation.com/MutantSmith.


Peter Ball mixing music with Hildy – foto Smith

LETTING DAYS OF PEACE

LETTING DAYS OF PEACE

Wrangling can be loose and fun and easy in peace, but twas that awful wrangling that didn’t help a thing, like tangling with tainted hurt in the thicket. It was hard and labored agitatedly, extra expended but things not wiped up and left to rot, burdened.

Peace is not hard but it can be durable. It’s like gravity. Just let our lassos loose.

Letting is easy. Letting is like letting. It can be like dropping. It’s like sitting. It’s like moving, too, moving into the next moment. It’s like drinking. Sit, sip and listen. It’s like a fruit plate, picked casually, sliced with relish. It’s anything made out of beans. It’s like wiping up the table, sweeping the porch, happy. It’s like being slow and deliberate or slow and relaxed. It’s like being fast and easy gamboling flying gallups or fast and paced thunder stampede, where thunder is peace and lightning release.

Letting can be letting people be what they proclaim to be. If Christ is peace, let all Christians be peace. If Buddha is peace, let all Buddhists be peace. If Allah is peace, let all Muslims be peace. If Judaism is peace, let all Jews be peace. If Earth is peace, let all pagans be peace. If Brahman is peace, let all Hindus be peace. Advaita. Whatever milk encompasses with its teets.

If we are like cowboys, we, if we are a cowboy. A people like a cowboy, we can just let our lasso loose. All the people adding up to this cowboy. All the people feeling the heart of this cowboy. This cowboy who finds peace. Embroidered roses, crying, not a sissy. This cowboy who walks on the range, who likes the cycles, the seasons, the harmonica, compadres and crickets. The path, the poncho, the burro, the path.

Sure-footedness, the path opening a way up the rock, evaporation, opening up the hill, evaporation, hill imparting ascent to this cowboy made of people, condensation. This cowboy made of people has eyes, wise, Clint Eastwood’s, wise. Hands tired of that awful wrangling. We are this cowboy.

Why did you wrangle? Don’t step on mother’s roses. Just let them bloom, drop open, path.

~ Lady