AD.

WALKING ON THIN ICE

Lady reads new chapbook 2nite @ Jammy Buggers


Lady reading from her chapbook Firecracker Mandalas – foto Smith

Lady K is reading from her new NightBallet chapbook Firecracker Mandalas tonight Thursday 9.13.2012 from 7-9:30pm at Jammy Buggars, 15625 Detroit Ave., Lakewood, Ohio 44107. The reading, A Fistful of Poets, is hosted by Dianne Borsenik whose NightBallet Press is releasing chapbooks by each of tonight’s five featured poets.

“One night, five poets, plus open mic to follow! Featuring Bonné de Blas, Kathy (Lady K) Smith, Alex Gildzen, John Dorsey, and Kara Johnston, all with new chapbooks of poetry! This is going to be a very exciting night, with a wide range of poetry and unrestrained grooviness. Jammy Buggars has promised us our own server and bartender… so bring your appetites! I know you’re hungry for excellent poetry, good food, drinkage, and time well-spent with friends! You can sign up for the open mic at the event. We’re going to RAWK it- see you there!”

A Fistful of Poets > facebook.com/events/350252785058290/”.

NightBallet Press > facebook.com/nightballet.press.

I’ll read in open mic from my bio Stations of the Lost & Found by Smith & Lady.

Bio
for Lady

I’ve had hot rod Lincolns
and the whites of their eyes
in my life nigh seven decades now
been way too fast wrong way bound
down one-way streets
on both ends of a gun
yet worked out most lies
and the stories that spill
from such good and ill
will outlast my lens
if ever I decide to go round that bend
for I’ve had white lightening
chased the dragon
fiddled with Federales
had tea in the tunnel
(with Alice)
fought über alles
pimped for the pummel
banked on the booze
till I emptied my flagon
winning even when I lose
so there’s a story in my arc
a moral for my fable
if you want to leave your mark
best frequently fail
with just a hint of spark
and land lightly on bruised feet
in the telling of the tale
and of course
it helps having a wife who edits well

— Smith 9.13.2012


Poetry water 9.11.2012 Shaker Library – foto Smith

Overdue


Out – foto Smith

Overdue

My life is like a book
which is cool
but it’s not always
the one I want to be reading
right now

— Smith, 8.28.2012


In – foto Smith

that’s Pat’s in the Flats #2



Pat’s in the Flats, found-neon assemblage by Chiplis – foto Smith

Sold nine copies of the memoir at a reading. It was a strange sensation, exceeding expectation. We have three copies left to sell and five more readings scheduled . . . better buy another box of books.

I was off inwardly as emcee for yesterday’s Poetry at Pat’s in the Flats reading. My previous two MC gigs this year were both new, fresh, off the cuff, exciting — which sparked my inner light. Yesterday was my first attempt at duplicating a previous gig and I wasn’t ready. When you have a regular gig, spontaneity flies out the door and spontaneity is what drives me behind the mic, so preparation’s needed next time.

Maybe having to hawk the book also added to my unease . . . I hate hawking. Before October’s Poetry at Pat’s in the Flats I’ll have to probe my psyche, practice my patter, maybe pull out a performance — but then my whole *performance* is about not having a *performance*, so that wouldn’t work very well.

I even read badly from my own book. I’m not used to reading badly these days . . . usually so-so is as low as I go.

But machts nichts because bottom line I had a great time; the featured poets were top-notch, the open mic readers each worthy of featuring, and the music by Malphonia was so sweet, poignant, evocative of another time and place . . . even old-fashioned in the best way of the word. One of the open mic poets (Mikel) even pulled out a bassoon and played a short number . . . what a beautiful looking and sounding instrument (although you don’t really pull out a bassoon, you take it out piece by piece by piece by piece by piece and assemble it).

So, seiza ya sometime in late October when we have the Fall Session, Poetry at Pat’s in the Flats #3 . . . it might be held outside on the back patio under the autumn sky, and they’ll likely let me emcee. Gotta get better at this public persona stuff, especially if the memoir makes it.



Some bands that’ve played at Pat’s in the Flats past 30 years – fotos Smith


Pat’s in the Flats – fotos Smith

Shelly Chernin on ukulele – foto Smith


Malphonia (1st foto is more accurate) – fotos Smith

Door to men’s room – foto Smith

Lady listening – foto Smith

Ambience at Pat’s in the Flats – foto 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

Disclaimers to the Universe RE Stations of the Lost and Found

I know that the Universe is affected pretty profoundly by what one puts out. When I do an issue of the city poetry zine, a lot of poetic energy returns to me as payment. When I spend time learning stuff for work on my own time, more paid work comes back to us as payment. When I volunteer for an activist cause, frequently the next day there will be some court ruling in favor of my perspective. This is indeed a Reality of Mind, and the microcosm of one’s local environment affects the macrocosm profoundly.

As a person concerned with the material I put out and help with for the Universe, I’ve had a bit of a time understanding how to rationalize my role as co-writer of our new book, Stations of the Lost and Found.

I pick up the book, and sirens charge down the street. The air gets excited and the birds stir. The sun goes behind a cloud. I open it and read its words of crimes past, and I make disclaimers to the Universe. I wrangle.

But intuitively, there’s this ball of volition in me, a ball of understanding, and it feels that the book is a good thing. Not that I want people to do the actions in the book, but that Smith’s life is a life I might have wanted to have lived just to have seen it.

Hard life, for sure. Taking pictures of his penis for art. Armed robbery. Shooting himself up with cocaine. Seemingly countless injuries as he tore against the very edges of the fabric of reality. Talking matter-of-factly about masturbation. Showing his wounds from women and daring to write about crying. Oozing art and poetic dividends from the scars in his skin, the falls, the hemorrhaging, the cancer.

Strangely enough, even as his wife I am sympathetic to his character in the book as he moves through his twenties trying to figure out how to find love. Strangely enough, I want the character to find true satisfaction in his relationships with either Red or Maudlin. More sympathy for Red as she was his wife.

I want him to straighten out through that ordeal. I want for him to have not put himself in jail, but I love the stories of his experiences in jail. Love his story about his fear of Ringo but I wouldn’t want anyone to experience the situation:

For the first six months I was in the tiers. A tier is seven two man cells and a shower, all enclosed in bars. Each night we were locked into our cells, and each morning let out to wander the six by fifty foot communal area. Our tier had Ringo. He was big, black, brutal, and did not like me, not because I was white, but because I wouldn’t get out of his way when he walked. And he walked all day in a continuous oval with a short detour each loop around me. He was working towards hurting me, and said so. Ringo scared the shit out of me. But I scared me more because I wouldn’t give in. When I’m that afraid, I seem to go out of my way to piss off what I’m afraid of. And what I was afraid of was bigger, stronger, faster, meaner, and an admitted fatal fighter. I felt ill.

Then the odd backhand of salvation. I had smuggled one too many letters out of prison. This letter described a psycho guard and his abuse of prisoners and their families. The warden called me to his office, showed me the illegal letter and quietly said, “Smuggling is eighteen months. I wonder if you have anything to say about your charges against the guard?”

“What I’ve written is not only true,” I said, “but I haven’t even scratched the surface of Sarge’s verbal and physical abuse of visiting wives.”

Warden told Sarge to return me to my cell, and for me to think about the eighteen months and we’d finish tomorrow.

I went to my cage and I worried. I worried about tomorrow. I worried about Sarge’s retaliation. I worried about the eighteen months. I worried about my wife who was sleeping with an excon who was not me. And I really worried about Ringo.

Next day the warden called me into his office and casually told me, “You’re moving downstairs to the dorm. I’m making you head cook.” No mention of the letter, Sarge, or the eighteen months.

One thing every prisoner wanted was a job that got you out of the cells and into the dorm with its one locked gate, radio and TV. And of all the jobs, cook was cockerel’s walk.

Switching so quickly from such certain sorrow to overwhelming wealth fucks your mind, sends too many threads simultaneously in too many different directions. Yet I instantly flashed: I’m free from Ringo.

If you’re going to be in prison, the kitchen’s the place to be. The best thing about working in the kitchen was I could eat what I wanted when I wanted. And I could wander about and find places of privacy. The menu was pretty basic because a chunk of money allotted for prison food went to the warden’s house budget instead. Even though I had never cooked anything before, I’d cook things like fifty gallons of chicken soup. Once I was awakened in the middle of the night by the highway patrol who’d brought in a deer that’d been hit by a car. I’d never done it before, but I skinned and gutted that deer; did it two more times before I left. Whenever I felt like it, I’d fry myself a venison steak. Even when I fall into shit, I find roses around me.

There might have been ten of us in the dormitory, and over a hundred fifty in the prison. To be in the prison dorm, you had to have a prison job. There were dishwashers, food servers, people who fixed things inside prison, somebody who did lawn work and outside tasks and someone else who ran errands. There was no compensation to having a prison job other than getting to live in the dorm, having a little more freedom, and being treated a whole lot nicer. The dorm had a TV and radio and books to read. I always thought it weird to see prisoners sitting around the dorm watching cop shows on TV and rooting for the cops.

After I was down in the dorm a while, one of the trustees ratted out Ringo, who in punishment was supposed to be in a locked cell in a locked tier three floors up. We were all sitting around watching TV, and in walked Ringo, taller, stronger and larger than any of us. Rat was Woody Allen’s size.

Ringo said to Rat, “You ratted me out.”

Rat said no.

Ringo repeated, “You ratted me out.”

Rat really did rat out Ringo, and we all knew it. He had also ratted my letter. Rat started denying again but Ringo hit him hard in the face, knocked him to the concrete floor, and STOMPED five times on his head with his hard work boot. With each stomp, Rat’s head banged against the concrete and bounced up to meet the down-coming boot which smacked his head even harder into the concrete as Ringo said one word per stomp: “You. . shouldn’t. . have. . done. . that.”

None of us moved or spoke, not once. Ringo turned and looked at us to see if he had a problem, decided he didn’t, and left. Rat got up, stemmed the blood, and his head swelled to twice its size.

That’s when I knew I was not the me I thought was me, but the me I needed to be. It’s not my only lesson, but it is one that worked. Had I said or done something, one of two things would have occurred. I’d be dead, or the others would have rallied and we would have stopped Ringo. But had that second happy Hollywood scene occurred, at some time, at some place, Ringo would have found me and hurt me. I know now I did the right thing for me, but it did cost me my mirror mirror on the wall who’s the hero here of all view of myself.

I think the Universe has kept Smith alive because he has written his stories down and because he has pushed the boundaries as a kind of explorer. I’m hoping the Universe agrees and finds the story thrilling and interesting, but doesn’t let it cause harm.

~ Lady

~ ~ ~

The memoir Stations of the Lost & Found by Smith & Lady is available for $20 at https://www.createspace.com/3903652. We’ll have 20 physical copies in soon for first come first serve.

the big blue U in the road


No outlet – foto Smith

I’m reading my memoir and now that I know it’s available to be seen by others, it has greatly changed the tenor of the read — it’s like, “Wow, I actually included that?”

I’m doomed to be mocked by many, and occasionally reviled.

Here’s the episode of *the Big Blue U in the road* from 1976.

I got tired of the stress of working for NCR in Baltimore and decided to move to Michigan to work for Pappy as his manual laborer. As I left NCR on my last day, the guy who’d hired me asked if I needed any grass. I drove out to his houseboat at dusk and felt like I was in a black and white film as I walked onto the houseboat in dusky light, the world all grays and shadows bobbing on the waves. He brought out a bag ocrushed f parsley and I said, “You’ve got to be kidding, I know what grass looks like, and this is parsley.”

“I know,” he said. “Try it.”

The parsley was soaked in hallucinogenic DMT. One toke and I immediately bought the whole bag. I walked across the film noir dock back to the beach and stepped into a telephone booth to call my brother to tell him what a treasure I’d scored for the trip to Michigan. As I hung up the phone, it had become dark enough that the wharf lights came on, illuminating the outside of the phone booth which was covered in hundreds of large spiders. I flung open the door and ran to the car, shuddering.

Driving through the hills of Pennsylvania at night on my way to Michigan, I took too deep a toke of the DMT-soaked parsley and my vision blacked out. “Well, this is interesting,” I said to reality, “but if you’re going to change the rules, you have to give me a clue.”

A big blue U appeared and hovered over the highway in front of the car. When the top of the U tilted to the left, I turned the steering wheel to the right to make the U straight again, and vice versa. When my vision came back I was right where I was supposed to be, in the middle of my lane going around a curve.

As I got past Detroit, I stopped by the side of the freeway for another toke of DMT. A state trooper stopped on the berm on the other side of the freeway, probably to see if I were in trouble. He turned on his flashing lights and drove down to the next crossover to return and check me out. I couldn’t wait because the car was filled with illegal smoke and my eyes were redder than a mad hen. I took off for the next exit, got off, went across the highway, got back on, and sped back down the section of highway the cop car had just been on. When I got to where the cop had been, the cop was where I had been, and he didn’t look happy when he saw me. We took off again. I sped to the next exit and hid behind a dead service station.

Smoking too much DMT and driving too long, I fantasized I was escaping Baltimore after all these years and that THEY were going to try to stop me. I feared a big hairy foot would drop down from the sky and stomp me into the road. I drove with one eye on the road and the other eye on the sky for a long while. I was as deeply fried as I’d ever been and became so paranoid that when I’d get off the highway for food or gas, I’d drive through the area to see what the people there looked like and then go into my bag and disguise myself to look as much like them as possible.

When I arrived at my folk’s trailer, I couldn’t stand up straight because I’d driven in the same hunched over position from Baltimore to Brahman. I lurched in all crouched over, sat down in the kitchen, swung both arms atop the table, looked at my parents, and started to speak. Total gibberish came out, and we all looked at each other in silence. None of us had any idea what I’d said. “You should just go look at yourself,” Pappy said, disapprovingly.

I walked into the bathroom and put my hands on the edge of the trailer sink counter, leaned forward to stare deeply into my eyes, and RIPPED the sink cabinet right off the wall with my weight. Pappy was furious until he saw it had only been held to the wall with four large staples.

This DMT I had was so good, everyone was impressed. I started selling it as Radish Rust and drove back to Baltimore to score more, the only successful drug deal I’ve ever done.

After I moved to Michigan, I collected unemployment and worked for Pappy under the table. On the way to Luddington to sign up for unemployment, I saw a sign for the hamlet of Nirvana. I wanted so badly to steal it. The road it was on was route MD 20, which we called Mad Dog 20 because it curved so much we figured the person laying it out had to have been drunk on Mad Dog wine. Through the Unemployment Bureau I got an interview for a sludge flow management position for which I felt sure I was qualified because I was smart, educated, and knew my shit; but I didn’t get the shit job, and I never stole Nirvana.

~ ~ ~

The memoir Stations of the Lost & Found by Smith & Lady is available for $20 at https://www.createspace.com/3903652. We’ll have 20 physical copies in a week for first come first serve.


Bio danger – foto Smith

Do not try this at home


Wanted – foto Smith

As far as my life story goes, which is now on sale near and far for only $20, I have to emphasize what they say on TV just before showing you some totally stupid jackass stunt that gets somebody hurt or something broken– DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME.

I should be dead a dozen times over. I’m only alive due to good genes, good health, fast reflexes and a LOT of real good luck. Both Lady and Mother Dwarf say I’m still here only because I amuse reality.

How I lived got me to a me I’m beginning to be comfortable with. Much of it was the wrong way down one-way streets, sometimes very fast.

I would not recommend my life path to anyone, neither friend nor foe — it cost a lot inside and out, and I know I wounded others.

Be that as it may, “Stations of the Lost & Found – a true tale of armed robbery, stolen cars, outsider art, mutant poetry, underground publishing, robbing the cradle and leaving the country” by Smith & Lady is available for $19.99 + shipping and handling at createspace.com/3903652.

In two weeks we’ll have a box of them to sell to interested folk in the area. We only ordered 30 as a trial run with maybe 20 for sale for $20. If these start to sell, we’ll order more (I have a big ego, but a small budget).

If it must be mailed or time is a factor, it’s best you order through CreateSpace. We’ll be setting up local and likely unlocal readings to sell as well.

The book is 364 pages, 5.06″ x 7.81″






metamorphosis – foto Smith

My life 4 sale: $20


4 online purchase – foto Smith

My life for sale: $20

66 years in the living and 7 years in the writing, my memoir Stations of the Lost & Found by Smith & Lady is available for online purchase from CreateSpace . . . looks like we’re their 3,903,652nd title.

Here’s the back cover blurb for fair warning:

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.

There’s a lot of humor, droll asides, and an often uncomfortable amount of honesty and disconcerting doings.

So anyway, it begins. May go someplace, may go no place. And folks aren’t going to like me very much through a good chunk of my life — but then I don’t like me much then either. But as they say, it took that me to get me to this me and this me’s still trying to be a better me so at least I’m stumbling in the right direction.

Stations of the Lost & Found – a true tale of armed robbery, stolen cars, outsider art, mutant poetry, underground publishing, robbing the cradle and leaving the country” by Smith & Lady available for $19.99 + shipping and handling at createspace.com/3903652.

In two weeks we’ll have a box of them to sell to interested folk in the area. We only ordered 30 as a trial run with maybe 20 of those for sale at $20. If those start to sell, we’ll order more.

If it has to be mailed, it’s best you order through CreateSpace.

The book is 364 pages, 5.06″ x 7.81″



Front & back covers, designed by Lady

Number 1 Son


Pappy – foto Smith

40 years ago I asked my father Pappy Smith to write or draw in my art journal. This is what I got.

Number 1 Son
by Pappy Smith

I ain’t no artist so I can’t paint a
masterpiece

I ain’t no poet so no poetry

I ain’t no writer so can’t write a
story and therefore can’t write
anything in this book.

Love, Pappy

~ ~ ~

He was 50 when he wrote this; it’s his one and only poem and appears in Stations of the Lost & Found, a true story of armed robbery, stolen cars, outsider art, mutant poetry, underground publishing, robbing the cradle and leaving the country by Smith & Lady, which will be available next week for online ordering. Finally, after almost seven years in the making and 66 years of living it, my memoir makes its move.






Pappy – fotos Smith

Alice Cooper, Tiny Tim & me


Cool, man – foto Smith

In the early seventies I went backstage to interview Bill Haley of the Comets. The usher took me back and said, “Excuse me, Mr. Haley, this man’s here to interview you for the paper.” Haley looked me in the eye and said, “Go away, kid. I’m counting my money.” And that was it. The sad part is I could have interviewed Little Richard instead of a pudgy man who looked like a used-car salesman.

I was at a radio station to interview Alice Cooper and his opening act, Flo and Eddy, who were half of the Turtles and who also played with Frank Zappa. The radio station supplied dope and we all got wonderfully stoned. Alice Cooper was cold and kept insulting fans who called in, while Flo and Eddy, who also recorded as Phosphorescent Leech and Eddy, were warm, funny and friendly, absolutely marvelous folk to be around.

As I left the radio station stoned and without an interview with Alice Cooper, I encountered a parking lot full of screaming teenyboppers. A little girl ran up to me and breathlessly asked, “Are you somebody?”

“No, I’m nobody.”

Got drunk with Paul Williams who had written a bunch of hit songs for other people, such as We’ve Only Just Begun for the Carpenters, and who had a couple hits himself. He was very funny, and very short. He ordered up a box of French white wine, tore it open, and we spent the afternoon talking about Hobbits. He wanted to play one in the movies.

I interviewed Tiny Tim when he was broke and reduced to touring backyard honkytonks. I watched his act, and after he went through his normal routine of Tiptoe thru the Tulips and the vaudeville jokey stuff, he went into a fifty song medley: one song would be from 1890, the next a Credence Clearwater Revival rock tune. After the show I told him, “I’m blown away. I think you’re a genius.” He was so hungry for recognition, he took the tape recorder out of my hand and for 45 minutes he talked and sang into it. He did a Bob Dylan song in Rudy Vallee’s voice, then a Rudy Vallee song in Bob Dylan’s voice.

He told me about a party in New York City where he opened a closet and found George Harrison in a cloud of marijuana smoke. He said he was ripped off by his managers and was flat broke—they’d stolen everything. Every now and then his wife, Miss Vicky, would try to get him off to do something else and he’d brush her away. After my time was up, the manager came in and said, “Mr. Tim, there’re only six people waiting for the next show. Do you want to cancel?”

Tim said, “I don’t care if there’s only one person in the audience. I’m going on.”

He wrote his address in my notebook and made me promise to send him the review, which turned out to be a front page piece. I wrote what a genius he was but then I never mailed it to him. Man needed it. I promised it. I didn’t deliver, and it still shames me.

— excerpt from Stations of the Lost & Found by Smith & Lady, available for sale in about a month


Rock stare – foto Smith