Friday, October 27, 2017

Blues in My Pockets

Limbic Rock

Skin, age and paper
In secret dance disabled
Raisins from the dead.

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


To Tupperware City
Light like liquid Zen
Wars time, tatters tight
As tight asses tie
Meat neat man to kine, kino
Contempt of course
Playing Plato’s barn

Blue bloods
Stabilize fish at 7
Mime the ma’am
Bamboo cathedrals
In wondrous disarray
Just outside real
Where the fat
Flee frantic
Fleece feed the poor

Competing EXIT signs
Dance specific disease
    Rude crude
    Plus tax
Bouncing Betty’s
Slouching Bethlehem belly
Slips on guilt
& splinters.



I hunger within
for the things without,
yet the things without
cannot feed me
for they lack substance.



Eat the cookie
drink the coffee
stare the dark
wait the sun
for light to stride the day

Sun will bring the wind
to move the wild grasses



Half a dozen nuthin'
a quarter pound of loss
a bit more downward moving
counting up the cost
eat some processed sugar
standing in the rain
swallow lies of someone
higher up the chain
fill my empty pockets
with lint and empty words
hope I don't get locked up
or put before the sword
whistle past the graveyard
while trying to get a taste
of what the high are hoarding
as I tighten belt at waist
seems this trickle's warm
and a wee bit yellow
why do the rich
have to piss on us below?



Old rich white male noise
kills black skin
buries brown babies
nukes yellow bodies
starves indigenous red
rapes women across rainbow
and worships green

if you're not whiteman with greenback
fuck you

 Will You Still Love Me?


Most folk laugh at children
playing with their invisible friends.

Many folk electroshock the insane
for talking to invisible friends.

Yet these same folk go to church
to pay to pray to their Invisible Friend.

Three undone by one.



Blues rocking my notion
Blues quaking my earth
Blues causing commotion
Blues life's afterbirth

Blues empty my wallet
Blues hole in my ace
Blues whatever you call it
Blues winning the race

Blues bogarting boardroom
Blues suffering's shame
Blues heavy in hordes loom
Blues down dirty game

Blues stomping the Savoy
Blues blowing the blame
Blues exploding the convoy
Blues scattershot aim

Blues hoodooing abuse
Blues burgeoning bicker
Blues clogging the clues
Blues secretly snicker

Blues in my pockets
Blues in my hair
Blues my eye sockets
Blues body snare

Blues ain't got a women
Blues got too many gals
Blues darkening domain
Blues breaking my pals

Blues harmonica crying
Blues electric guitar
Blues slow night dancing
Blues wherever you are

Blues just ain't my am
Blues knot nature's load
Blues a late night jam
Blues the midnight crossroad

Blues is selling your soul
Blues is crying your game
Blues is digging your hole
Blues is jazz rhythm rain

Blues sickens the sore
Blues unjustly jisms
Blues unevens the score
Blues happiness imprisons

Blues is the night's shadow
Blues is the day's glare
Blues is good time's widow
Blues but might's blare

Blues dark dank and dripping
Blues ark for the poor
Blues history's shipping
Blues forevermore

(For the recitation with music by Peter Ball, word & voice by Smith, 2010, go to


Today’s LittleNip(s):


Half is what you make it.
All is never there.



—Medusa, with gratitude to Smith (Steven B. Smith) for his usual irreverence and fine artistry!

 —and celebrate poetry! 
And don’t forget tonight’s 
Speak Up Stories and Poems
presenting Moon Don’t Go at Avid Reader, 
1945 Broadway, Sacramento, 7pm. 

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.