Just Different Crazy

Shadow Bar Smith

—Poems and Artwork by Steven B. Smith, Cleveland, OH
 

STATUS REPORT 74

The sweet pouch of poetry
lies in night
from 4 a.m. to just before light

or in the dark of days right before bed
when reason's fried by fact
and heart hurt by head

it is these pockets
outside rational mind
that bare the finest fruit

Waterhand
 

SEPTEMBER SONG

A toad down a well
sees only some of the sky,
cannot judge true hue.

We have fire and
we have coffee, what a buzz
watching rising sun.

Daily waking life
stone stacking stone stacking stone
seeking the unturned.

Wife sits in silence,
I peak in through her windows,
try to see who's home.

Hug to hug we hold
recharge station equation
any time ease need.

Got a thrum sprocket
sproutin' up in my pocket
for your love socket.

Lady bleeds with moon,
Rerunning her tithe to time
in old bloodbound loop.

Sitting here in heat
knowing soon the snow will come,
shiver just a bit

Green leaf seeking sun
for some photosynthesis,
raising sap in tree.

Picking raspberries
under the sun in the thorns,
warm firm flesh on tongue.

Fire feeds fire
as flame eats flame flame climbs flame
in arousal rise.

The bees mix pollen,
nectar, their inner enzymes,
vomit pure honey.

Oh my how quickly
the weather changes whether
from sweat to sweater.

Leaves tumble, trees die,
rot in soil, feed fresh seed,
new time grows from old.

Sun and leaf meet green,
bark runs sap from each to each,
earth, sun, fire, air.

I hear far off cry.
Is it bird? Cat? Plant? Human?
Such are times we're in.

Some have less not more,
others just the opposite --
where's the fair whether?

Sleep rolls over me
dulling war and famine, pain . . .
think I'll sleep some more.

Life oft requires
finding the one position
that hurts a bit less.

Sooner is better,
cold lunch on hot afternoon,
but later is fine

Life ís flotsam jetsam
flood our living surface in
tide of daily use.

No matter how hard
you try, or much you focus,
sometimes things go bad.

Low light lake and sky
forgetting where ends begin,
here and there unclear.

No scream for ice cream,
no urgent rush to recess,
need to clean your room.

All the aches of pain
in spirit flesh imprisoned
temper each new dawn.

If I had a cow
and named him Moot, Moot would moo
unless Moot were mute.

Fresh from our garden
newly plucked in my cupped hands,
smell of rosemary.

Crickets count degree,
play le jazz hot or go cool
beat depending heat.

A dead clock reads right
by accident twice a light,
otherwise is lies.

I'm driving dirty
through this laundry list they call
The Rules of Order.

 Schrodinger

X (solve for) =

I get up in the morning
and I know nothing.
I do bad during the day
and learn from my mistake
do bad again, learn again
bad, learn
bad, learn
bad, learn
and by the time I go to bed at night
I'm wiser
I've learned stuff
I know things
I know how to do tomorrow better
I go to sleep
I forget
I wake
I know nothing.

 E=mc2

ALONE THIS TRAIN

I look to pain to gain
Sleep devoid of sheep
And master's muster walk
Or talk of tinkers' conforming will 

Alone this train 
I see you born 
To breed 
To die  
Infected meat
You teach to cheat 
Your fly from famine
Shallow matter 
Decayed in safety's slumber 

You briefcased fellows
Bellow farts to follow
Hollow smells 
Of high topped fashion
Passion fish not flesh 
But flounder 

Hurried waters sleek in sinning
Shower lies and cry forgetting
Licking compulsion's flesh 

This land is long, and lost in shadow
Her sweets succinctly sour

 Coca Cola Wars

GREASE YOUR GRILL

I’m an oven cleaner baby
Come to scrub your grill
Yes this oven loving man
Mean to steam your grill
Get the heat back baby
Flame and fire the thrill

Iíll rub your rust off lady
Get your grid to shine
Rid this mood of maybe baby
Lady let me lick your lime
Make much meat that might be
Moistened by munching lightly
Juicy, prime

Gonna grease your grill
Put the heat back baby
Then, send you the bill 

 Backside of the Mirror in Tarnished Brain Land

LAMENTATION 5 - The Faithful Bewail

As Eye and I went walking
And Eye and I were talking
Eye on I was watching
So shake your booty Buddha boy
Canít you spare a paradigm?

For me wanna marijuana
And me wanna do the dog
Bow the wow to shady lady
Leap and lap her fire log
Oh let me be your poodle boy

All aboard the Cardboard Express
Fresh in fresh sin and absolution
You can keep your Hallelujahs
Let me have my Loch Ness Jesus
Nam myoho renge kyo

Oh yes
It’s all tits and toothpaste
A test tease totality
In textbook time

But I am not bothered by grace
Why watch the dead rework the living
Embalm our worst in overtime
Famous faces in golden places
Never look to me
To see Zen flesh-less-ness to be

Serpent servant sorrows sire
Brags big broths in briny bowls
But aftermath of meat belief
Is math to meat retreat

So Eye and I still walking
Though Eye and I not talking
But Eye on I am watching
So do your duty Buddha buddy
Cue this cat to paradigm 

 6-eye Smith

NOW ZEN

It ain’t age.
It ain't sex.
It ain't race, religion, height,
   gender, color, class or learning.

It's path, progress and position.
The road not not taken.
Be here now.
Hear now
   o eyes unseeing
   o ears unearned.

We're all perfect potential
   cept maybe republicans, lawyers,
   the true organized crime called police
   the true whores called priests.

You can walk on water IF water wants.
Just ask.
Walk willing.
There ain't no dark night's ungentle light.
Ain't nothing outside but lies.
But even lie true ain't for you.
Walk within.
Don't need no god.
No catholic pimp pushing blood feast.
My lie's mine.
Walk my own walk.
Fuck the talk.

Grasshoppers gone wrong become ants.
Bad ants cry uncle, cry wolf, cry baby.
Goats goad sacrifice to sun.
Ritual requires repetition, release.
Nothing stays river's run
   but drought's dry dirt
   (and river still runs).

Rub your ears together.
Start a fire.
Flesh alarm.
Let gone go.
Lock lip.

Listen.

 Sunrise Sea

Today’s LittleNip:

STATUS REPORT 133

I keep saying
we're all just different crazy.

I got a lot of cracked dishes
work just fine.

 Winter Wonder

Our thanks to today’s fine poetry/photographer/music/and so on chef, Smith (Steven B. Smith), who has been writing poetry for 52 yrs, making assemblage art 51 yrs, taking fotos since 1958. His books of poetry include Zen Over Zero - Selected Poems 1964-2008 (City Poetry Press), Unruly (Crisis Chronicles Press), Hip Cat Femur Whack Give a Doc a Bone (NightBallet Press), and he and wife Lady wrote his memoir, 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 (City Poetry Press). His poetry, art and reviews appear on agentofchaos.com since 2002, and for the past decade, he has blogged almost daily on walkingthinice.com. He has 107 songs on reverbnation.com/mutantsmith where he sings his words to music by Peter Ball and Billy Clarksville. His greatest achievement is finding and marrying Lady 10 years ago, their selling his place and traveling for 31 months in 10 countries on 3 continents.

Here's his résumé:

Smith, 2015

1940s
Bitterroot Mountain born

1950s
farm boy cow milker chicken-rabbit-hog waste remover
hod carrier

1960s
paper boy
shoplifter
car thief
house wrecker
sailor
radar electronics technician
poet
USNA Midshipman
artist
hippie
life insurance salesman
husband

1970s
chemist
armed robber
prison cook
bankrupt
graphic arts salesman
Bethlehem Steel extra man
snow cone flavor delivery man
college graduate
newspaper film / music / book / stage critic
milkman
avant garde theater manager
womenís shoe salesman
divorced
computer operator
drug dealer
carnival laborer
adulterer
church janitor

1980s
programmer analyst
drunk
condo owner
publisher/editor
celibate

1990s
near dead
sober
european traveler

2000s
unemployed
cancer
retired
remarried
expat
10 countries 3 continents 31 months
repat

2010s
hip replacementee
memoirist
shoulder replacementee


One of Smith’s many songs, "High Wind Whether", may be heard at www.reverbnation.com/mutantsmith/song/12074804-high-wind-whether (music/mix/recording Peter Ball,1949-2015, words and vocals by Smith)

Memoir of Smith’s first 60 years, entitled 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, Smith & Lady, 2012, can be found at www.amazon.com/Stations-Lost-Found-Steven-Smith/dp/1477628290

Welcome to the Kitchen, Steven, and don’t be a stranger! Steven lives in Cleveland, and is visiting us thanks to D.R. Wagner, who saw him on his trip back East last summer.

____________________

—Medusa

 Orangepeel Smith