Friday, June 23, 2017

They Call Me Bone

Eyeline Smith
—Poems and Photos by Smith, Cleveland, OH


They call me bone
in secret name
no one knows is secret

Covered heart alone
carries weight

Meat is meat
if no magic
magic no magic no meat

Uncovered heart atones
recent track
marries meat to bone

 Sat Cat


Third-floor window
dim in
bright out.

Big bee flies clumsily across
two leaves flit float down in dance
bee bumbles back
as third slow falling leaf
lingers in light.

Inside is pre-cricket quiet
outside the water rush
of wind and traffic
babble of birds
feeding at feeder.

Black cat quivers
crouched on sill
wanting bee
the birds below.



Outside the fire
it's tooth and claw
feather beak talon all
glint of eye
gulp of gullet
no reason why
just bite the bullet
enjoy the good
outlast the bad
it's all about survivalhood lad
and lassie
avoiding ire
and being had
so protect your chassis
in this slant land



Such cunning, these beasts.

By pruning Heaven
they've stilled the old wild yeasts.

Yet in breeding unleavened
seed such sheetings of grief
shat out uneven
o'er poor human paste
that all dogs believing
rise lonely, and weak.

These acids know weakness.
Know mercy for grief
or inherent meekness
unheeded beneath
these semen-stained sheets.

Keeps meat on its knees
and power unaided
or tree on the leaf
and tragic the shaman.



Freud comes tonight
to mock our mere
reflected lives'
refracted fear,
shelf dependents
miming mirror
of every man and action.

In abstinence
such sibilance
through undue trade
and undulance
calls forth
in outlawed ambulance
emotional transaction. 

These scars we horde
until they're heard
to bargain bare
a binding word,
the players paid
and pompous lured
to daily dead transgression.

Nipples rise
through lemon dust
raw, red
and real in sapient lust,
emasculate tongues
court and musk
mother's moist application.



First couple sips strong black coffee
couple tokes cheap weed
a bit more coffee
see if the ache of pains pass
sit in the low light
waiting for sun to rise
my favorite time
before light before strife
before might turns to maybe
turns to later
turns to lost
turns to let it go
walking this waking wheel
working the worry weave
for answers
to get through one more day
rolling the rock
losing the rock
rolling the rock
losing the rock
letting it go
letting it all go
cherishing what remains



There will be
No tears
No wailing
No gnashing of teeth
When I go
When I’m gone
When I die
When my flesh
Is sold
For packets to eat
Or doorstop
What knot
Plot not
Best to burn me baby
Use me as sand
Grit to rough the bland
Just call me
Oyster helper
Pearl point
Beginning irritant
Smooth in end



We're born in blood, raised in flesh
In Ragnarock 'n roll Armageddon
So let's go let's go let's go go Sell American
For the red white black and blue

Schroedinger's cat is dead, perhaps
And we but lie, lie dreaming
This tit for tat means this this ain't that
No matter what the ragweed’s weaving

My Little Bo Peep's out eating her sheep
With Darwin doubtless her handle
Your Little Boy Blue's down sniffing glue
While cooking a spoon over candle

To hear this online, with music by Peter Ball, word & voice by Smith, go to

 Yesterday's Wine

Today’s LittleNip:


This this is where I am—
the dead are dead,
their just desserts undelivered,
and regret a nasty beast
with no heart to pierce with truth.


—Medusa, with many thanks to Smith (Steven B. Smith) from Cleveland for today’s fine poems and pix! And music besides!

 Easter Sunrise
 —Photo by Smith
Celebrate poetry!

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.