Piling high the sticks and stones
mixing muck, dirt, and earth
She-God cries "Up and atom, Adam,"
then nudging his ribs
steals his bone
and laughing up Her sleeve
for better and worse
I sit in a second-hand armchair
on the third floor of an old house
in which I pay to live,
a poor man with a rich mind
and a weak will offset by stubbornness
and sometimes saved by luck.
My riches are the memories
of the merry and not so much along the way,
the friends that wove the weave
of leave behind in word and song and art
that sparks the arc.
Reward is wife and cat.
That is where it's at.
I'm with the ones I want
who want with me to be.
Cat's asleep on top of box,
wife in eleven-year bed,
both leap alive inside my head.
Chased the riches and fame game
fifty years but came up lame
so am what I am
which is no Popeye.
Got that much worked out in 70 years.
The rest remains muddled,
angle and desire licking somewhat less
in mesh of older flesh.
If I had to take a guess
life is this:
step, stumble, fall, rise yet again
CONVERSATION WITH WIFE 27
All that shivers is not cold.
I start for the flower bush.
"Look out dear, doggy dew, you almost stepped in it."
She keeps my feet from shit as I head for the roses.
Do you know the origin of mist? - Mistissippi.
I curse the dude in the big too-long pickup,
May your coffin be a foot too short!
"I don't think that's very effective dear,
he's not gonna care when he's dead."
Thyme and parsley wait for no one,
wilt and won't at will.
"I'm just crimping the pie dough for the quiche."
Is that like menstrual crimps?
“I have the oven pre-heating at 325."
Actually it's 3:31 right now, but you're close.
Where does myth come from? - Mythissippi.
"I'm the middle-aged witch woman you always wanted."
That was 'rich' woman, Reality heard it wrong.
"Oh Reality heard right, it has a sense of humor."
The persistence of persimmons.
Hey baby, what’s your sign?
Cum here often?
Wanna see my coloring book?
I’ve got a big red crayon
Fit right between your lines
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”
STATUS REPORT 220
Looked out the window
looked inside my head
didn't see nothin'
so went back to bed
WEB WHAT WE WEAVE
Tibetan jumping spiders
attach safety strand to rock
just in case
because it's a long fall world up there
and there's no prey down here.
Irish spiders glue strand to this side
then leap for that side
knowing too far
but count on breeze
to blow them over;
if not they climb back up
and leap and climb and leap and climb
until on other side.
I climb through karma life-to-life
make new knots of old oughts
while dealing with this plot
mistaking me for my shadow.
Got no safety web
no wrapped supply of fly
but I do court the blessing breeze
to lift me up and over.
Rocks roll, wills wail
sorry soul gone to hell
didn't hafta, coulda changed
you know I ax'ya not to range
but blame don't walk
and talk don't shame
when aim won't work
and chalk can't chain
you walk your cell a day at a time
knowing full well you did the crime
of being born, of buying in
full face forlorn, fool human sin
bad design not my fault
get on the wire to the Keeper's vault
it's His work, it's His line
He shouldn't shirk my misalign
an even deck is all I ask
what the heck
I can do the hack
[. . . may be heard as slinky slow stroll down music lane with music/mix/recording by Peter Ball (1949-2015), words & voices by Smith: go to www.reverbnation.com/mutantsmith/song/9961619-unfettered-folly]
STATUS REPORT 221
Light leaks away at the end of day
as the sounds of street traffic
become wind, water,
the air softens
cooling sun's kiss,
the slow lessening of light
muffling leaf and branch
land and sky
in the dim before dusk
There are no final answers
but if there were
they'd be here
—Medusa, with thanks to Smith (Steven B. Smith) for today’s fine poetry and pix!
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back