Wednesday, December 25, 2013

woman sand sea

Friday, November 29, 2013

Speaking out about
being Vex about Haitians
arriving in The Bahamas

by Obediah Michael Smith

Act I

Whoever happens to overhear me confess I couldn't care less. For so long now they have made being Bahamian seem like a travesty: an identity that is constantly interrupted. Every time a ship of them comes - whether they are apprehended or not - they upstage what was happening- whatever we might have been doing. Whatever we might have been engaged in, as if knocked over or knocked out of our hands.

In addition to however many are apprehended, detained and deported, without end haunted by those escaping into the country- escaping through the bushes. Almost impossible to go a day without Haitians on your mind. Haitians haunting Bahamians - haunting the Bahamas without end.

That is what is unfair. That Is what is unwelcome, the interruption they are. How is it that Haitian is the theme of Bahamian life? Hardly a thing- hardly a thought more constant. Impossible to get Haitian off Bahamian minds. Inserting themselves upon the agenda whatever your plans were.

Haitian on the menu as it were, along with the fish of the day - along with conch chowder and whatever else you were fixing to serve - planning to serve - Haitian in the mix. It is that intrusion that I detest.

Impossible to know my country apart from theirs - apart from them - undocumented here and there, any and everywhere among the population.

Want to bring structure- improvement- uplift to the citizens of the country. Want to inspire them to excel. Want to put this program and that program in place for their advancement but the Haitians keep-a-coming and so much of the nation's energy and so much of its resources running out running after them.

It is the national structure you see that cannot get erected. Haitians flooding in like bad weather; ruining, wrecking what had been put in place and painted. Trees and lawns and landscapes disfigured and shingles off roof tops. This the sort of setback to attend to without end: a step forward and two back with illegal Haitian immigrants to deal with- to have to do with- to have to fill your hands with. What else can we at one and the same time do with hands filled with Haitians apprehended?

How debilitating it is, the energy it draws out- attention it draws away from so many Bahamian matters - a vexing problem. Relax- less vigilant- turn our backs upon Haitians entering undocumented and soon there would be more of them than us. It is just that we have other stuff to work on - to deal with but can't because of how unrelenting is their surreptitious invasion.

I have for sometime now, in silence, seeming to be tolerant, knowing of their plight, thrown my hands up regarding the idea of identity, a Bahamas for Bahamians. In my heart, I've decided that these 700 islands, its capital especially, is not mine but free for all.

You see, I wanted a lab, enclosed as it were, to do my experiments - with all of my Petri dishes containing my experiments, undisturbed unless I disturbed them; a record though of all the little changes of whatever transpired, but over run as these islands are, with Haitians invading, all of my experiments are spoilt, shifted this way and that. Security I needed, conditions I needed to insure the integrity of the outcome of my lab experiments is over and over again compromised.

This country now is at best Haitian-Bahamas. We are all at best Haitian-Bahamians. They have a country to themselves, the western side of Hispaniola. They do what they do with it - did what they did with it now they want to do what they want to do with ours too.

I see it as unfair, their unending intrusion. Always shocking to discover that in their substandard living conditions- living on the edge as they are- here in other people's country illegally as they are and they'd have, in so many instances, in excess of half-a-dozen children.

Haitian dilemma, without end, inserted and inserted is our dilemma as well. Forced upon us as it is, we are made to wear an outfit whether we like it or not.

I have for a long time not known what it means to be a Bahamian. I have not been allowed to be. I do not try to be. I have become comfortable being or I have to settle for being something ambiguous.

Attempt to hold fast- to hold on to Bahamian like a stick in my fist I was tenaciously clutching; find the stick is a shitty stick I do not wish to grip; I do not wish to grasp. Let them have it, I seem to have said some time ago. Some time ago, it seems, I flung it down; I flung it away - this idea of a Bahamian identity.

I am just one among the diaspora of millions of the continent of Africa; without country, without nationality. Their independence is their independence. They acquired it in 1804. What I thought was our independence - acquired in 1973 - is not ours really; not free to pursue our destiny without Haitians without end jumping on board; escaping from the mess they've made so far of their national experiment.


Act II 

It is arriving and arriving that annoys- that is the problem. Were it at a store to buy, one would be happy but to a play after it has started is certainly interruption - is certainly a nuisance to who is enclosed and watching already as well as to the players; those arriving, seeking seats, while the play is unfolding and there are lines in abundance to struggle to hold onto and in addition, the spell that the drama or comedy might have cast like thread or threads of one color or another or of several colors broken- snapped as those arriving late are added or add themselves.

The other metaphor or analogy is this, when something is being baked or cooked and there is a recipe of ingredients and amounts to make what you or baking or cooking and there is more and more continually arriving that you are forced to incorporate. But are  the citizens themselves not constantly having children you might suggest to challenge my logic and I counter by saying: The children of the citizens themselves are like the ingredients that have been prescribed giving off or releasing flavor and already are expected. Come in through the front door and accounted for is one thing to deal with but what wants to sneak in through a back door and ruin the batch the batter without the cook- the baker knowing what he or she is dealing with is another matter.

It is akin certainly to a thief intruding knocking over, overturning anything and everything, rooting up in what is in your draws- your precious valuables- caring nothing for your order and heartless- carries off something that is priceless: ruby or diamond or some gold or silver piece that cannot be replaced. What was stolen attached to some memory or some experience - steps that cannot again be taken.

I am aware thought that the fault might be in piling up on earth what might be attractive to thieves or what can rust. The Holy Bible I know has warned against such a practice. Is to be Bahamian one of these same sort of luxuries that we have no right to? No right to a nation to ourselves - no right to a nationality?

But before moving off and moving on, one last analogy. A class to teach and another and another student assigned to it or students, already assigned, arriving after the lesson has commenced - interrupting and to be added- to be incorporated- to be certain that all included are on one same page.

You see, it is not that my heart is hard. It is not that I am unwilling to let who must, come in from the cold.  It has more to do with maintaining structure, avoiding mayhem. Mayhem enough among the citizens themselves to be corrected- fixed- made sense of. Is nation no more than castle made of sand and wave after wave comes in and wash down what was worked on- wash away what was built upon all day - or is a nation made of sticks and some force or other or some bully can come by and walk upon it or with a gesture, knock it down- knock it over - make naught of what for you was plus - of what for you or so you thought was adding up to something?

One thing the invaders throughout history against whom you must prepare defense, who came to plunder - to rape and slaughter - burn cathedrals, libraries, kill priests, librarians, women, children - come to lay waste what is to you infinitely valuable and to them worth nothing and to be trodden underfoot - blood to be spilled - wine to swill or to drink or to bathe in - land to claim or to do whatever they wish with.

This is another sort of invasion though it is invasion nonetheless and has to be defended against. Some might say that I am sewing the sort of seeds that painted the sort of picture of Jews that lead to there being gotten rid of - that lead to their extermination in such large numbers after first being rounded up contained in ghettos like cattle in pens- like Indians in the USA on reservations upon a continent to which, in its entirety, they once lay claim.

Bahamas which we now call ours, before Columbus came, belonged or was home to Taino, Arawaks and Caribs, called Indians by  Columbus. It was not long though before they were relieved- not just of these islands that were claimed for Spain but they were relieved of their lives as well.

So you might say that  as far as history goes, there are no clean hands. All hands are dirty with bloody deeds. Without end boarders shifting- changing like rivers- lakes- like everything that is alive, evolving. Who lays claim to this or that area of real estate - assigned to it one name or another - designated it a country- a nation- independent with flag and anthem with boarders to defend- a line to cross and you're in Russia, Germany, Spain or France or you're in Guatemala, Mexico, Costa Rica.

Where are the boarders in the water between The Bahamas and Cuba? I understand that it was this dispute that was very much responsible for the sinking of the Flamingo in 1980. Boarders must be established and defended. 

I have my country and I have my yard. How tied they are. How tired I get of people encroaching, littering, standing, sitting or just making too much noise on or near my property. I even call the police about persons near by lighting fires - filling up my house with poison, stink smoke that chokes me, makes me sick, leaves me coughing, sneezing.

All that I have written here is just that- coughing sneezing- stuff that I am hawking up and spitting or you might say that I have merely blown my nose- a lot of snot into tissue paper.



How is it that what athletes have to say we so urgently need to hear? Artists on the other hand are seldom interviewed. Voices we without end hear are those of athletes, politicians and preachers. Well, in addition, thank God, we hear the pop songs of our musicians, their rake and scrape and their calypsos - included among them Phil Stubbs and KB.

Is it by design that the mentality of the people generally is kept low? Such a large proportion of the population hardly any better off then illegal Haitian immigrants, fleeing Haiti to escape a life where they live too far out upon the edge? On the edge when they arrive here too but I suppose better off.

Why are there so many Bahamians so way down under? Can we not at least afford them- provide then with a better education? Is it by design that Bahamians in such large numbers are so poorly educated? It seems deliberate what they are fed and what they are not in terms of knowledge of themselves.

So many artists who belong to the people too, they know little or nothing of. Every murder that takes place they are informed of in detail. ZNS keeps count. Who commits a murder we get to know well. There are those Bahamians though who are supremely creative who it seems are kept in some small tight elitist circle and the people generally have little access to- know little or nothing of.

We get to know- we get to hear what motivates an athlete- hear of him / of her at every step but what our artists do and why is left a mystery- is kept secret. I know because I must and, I suppose, because I am one of them. I was certainly inspired by such persons though to walk in their footsteps. How many others might choose such steps if they were shown them- if these steps were not so covered over- were not so covered up.

It has to be deliberate- policy- some conspiracy why what I do and others in the arts like me are treated as it we said nothing- as if we had nothing to say: I mean people in the literary- visual and performing arts. And to further suggest that we as a group were deaf, dumb, mute- to further suggest that we have said and are saying nothing; without end, consultants from abroad are called in to pronounce on everything nationally about which an important decision has to be made.

Should our artists- their scholarship- all there research not inform us first- should all their insight not first be exhausted before the need arose for this consultant- that consultant from England, Canada and elsewhere is called in to insult us? They are omniscient and we are not. They are intelligent and we are not.

We are here daily immersed in the experience- living in the life we live, minute by minute, and our insights mean nothing- are worth nothing- are not to be examined first?

Should it not be a matter of national pastime to invest in being able to translate what a painter, poet, sculptor, ceramicist, dancer, film maker is saying? Are we not- the majority of us- people with a tradition of the talking drum? Do we not still have Junkanoo and understand its message just as clearly as language spoken?

We give the people Junkanoo- all good and well- in fact it is wonderful. What I find interesting about the sciences that is equally true of the arts is that they work in tandem. The arts and sciences as well are symbiotic. They work together. They  reinforce each other. Watch documentaries made by the BBC, the History Chanel, PBS and other agencies and you see scholars from a variety of disciplines, gather to bring a person or an incident back to life - often from the distant past.

Why are parts of the equation of knowledge about ourselves being left in the dust as it were- being left to silence? Yes it is important what athletes have to say. It is important that we know their stories but there are other voices - other stories that are as vital- that are just as important to us.

As significant as Sidney Poitier is, look at how many Bahamians did not, until recently, even know that he was one of us- knew little of all that he has done to impact - to change and to reshape the now we live in.

There are too many among us in the dark. It us partially their fault, certainly, because anyone can himself or herself choose light instead and seek it. What for me is missing though from our wanting to be independent- from our wanting to be a nation is this, persons in leadership who know so very well how to make their children somebody, seem not to know how to address the children of the nation with that same urgency. [Is that blanket not thrown out to cover- to warm and to safeguard all the children because among them are mixed in all the undocumented Haitians? In the nest not just your chicks but eggs laid as it were by other birds - intruders - invaders?]

We labor daily to insure that children of our own excel - those of us with means. We are satisfied though that there are those among us who are the have-nots. We are satisfied that there are those among us, fellow Bahamians, who are outsiders. In our independent Bahamas I thought there'd have been none who were outsiders. I thought is was going to be a nation of us and for us. What I thought was possible with independence and with our tiny population, was that we would be a family - that everyone would be special.

Where the emphasis has been placed in this society of ours is upon making more money - getting more money but there are a lot of thugs who have money. There are many who turn thugs to get money. Where the emphasis has to be placed for all in our land is upon quality of life and quality of relationships. At the basis and at the heart of this quality of life of which I speak is knowledge. It is with that that we must be armed. It is this that as well disarms.

Education- ability to reason softens. How important it is always to have something to think about - to think through - to think out.

Thursday, January 24, 2013

The Next Big Thing

I have been tagged by the poet, Althea Romeo-Mark to give this interview for an expanding blog project called The Next Big Thing. Althea Romeo-Mark was born in Antigua and now resides in Switzerland. She has published five collections of poems: If Only the Dust Would Settle: Author House, UK 2009; Beyond Dreams: The Ritual Dancer, Sabanoh Press, Liberia , 1989; Two Faces: Two Phases, Speed-O-Graphics, Liberia , 1984; Palaver: West Indian Poems, Downtown Poets Co-op, New York, USA 197 and The Silent Dancing Spirit, Department of Pan-African Studies, Kent State University, 1974. You can read her interview at this site:


TNBT:    Where did the idea come from for the book?

The poems contained in Pictures at an Exhibition, scheduled to be released in March of this year, 2013, by Poinciana Paper Press, accumulated over 23 years. Not until about a year ago did the thought arise to make a single collection of them. What I had been doing though was translating the exhibitions of Bahamian painter, Stan Burnside, into poetry. This is a practice I have engaged in for a long time, perfecting more and more - a sort of theft actually. Where there was art that I wanted to keep and could not afford or that was not for sale, I'd translate or attempt to translate the essence of these works into poetry. The painting or paintings were not mine but the poems I made from them or that I made them into certainly belong to me. Most of my poetry is made from life itself. Making art from art is for me an important and interesting exercise. I have attempted it and I think successfully with the work of other Bahamian artists; among them and most notably are, Dorman Stubbs, Antonius Roberts, John Cox, Michael Edwards, Brent Malone, Max Taylor and Toby Lunn. Some of these earlier successful attempts have been published. Pictures at an Exhibition though is the very first of these attempts that is resulting in the publication of an entire collection of such poem. This is certainly my most extensive collaboration with any single artist. My partnership with Stan Burnside, converting his exhibitions of paintings into poetry over a period of 23 years, got the poems written. Getting Sonia Farmer and Poinciana Paper Press, about a year ago, to agree to publish this collection, with images of paintings from these 23 years of exhibitions, created the trinity of partners that is bringing Pictures at an Exhibition into being.    

TNBT: What genre does your book fall under?

If painting was a language like Greek or Chinese, this would be a work of translation. The kind of reading that resulted in these poems though is a sort of Anthropology. Legitimately though, this is a collection of poems and the works of visual art do not illustrate the poems nor are the poems elaborate captions of the paintings. Both of these art forms sit or stand side by side. 

What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?

Interestingly, Stan Burnside, the artist upon whose paintings the poems in Pictures at an Exhibition are based, has a famous movie star cousin, Sidney Poitier, who is also a collector of this artist's paintings. Though born in Miami, Sidney Poitier's parents are Bahamians. Here in The Bahamas, on Cat Island and on New Providence, is where Sidney Poitier spent the first 15 years of his life. He would certainly have to be in a movie made from my poems of Stan's paintings. In addition, I'd want his daughter, Sydney Tamiia Poitier in it. She is herself a movie star. I'd want her mother, Joanna Shimkus, in it as well, an actress from Canada. I would want another of Sidney Poitier's daughters in it, Pamela Poitier. She is not a movie star but she is an acting teacher. I would want Beverly Todd in it also.

TNBT:  What is the one sentence synopsis of your book?

Deep inside the creative act, making red-hot coals cool enough to handle

TNBT: How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?

It took me 23 years, the same 23 years over which the paintings that they are of were painted and exhibited.

TNBT: What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

It is this book, Pictures at an Exhibition that is about to be published, that is actually my 17th book. The 16 previous books are: Bicentennial Blues, 43 Poems, Ice Cubes, Acts, Fruits from Africa, Once Upon A Blank Page, As If Creation were His Crime, Christmas Lights, Poems To Sit On To Shell Peas, On The Hinges Of This Town, Seventy Poems, Open Testament, In A China Shop & Other Poems, El amplio Mar de los Sargazos y otros poemas, Wide Sargasso Sea & 62 Other Poems, Discovery Daze, a collection of 72 poems. Soul of These Soils Sail of These Seas, released in 1996, is a cassette recording of 155 of my early poems. What is challenging and exhilarating about my commitment to create constantly is the challenge of abiding as it were at the heart of what matters - to be- if not in the ring itself- to be at ringside. As writer- as poet how necessary it is - eternally - to be a witness- to be on the front line, witnessing both what is being destroyed as well as what is being forged because these together contribute to the evolution of creation. It calls to mind those Volcanologist who race about the globe to stand upon the lips of craters while a volcano erupts, spewing orange-red molten lava high into the air. What is vital and moving though might be subtle - like watching a bird lay its eggs or watching a litter of pups being born. 

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

Pictures at an Exhibition will be the second collection of my poems to be published by Poinciana Paper Press. The first was, In A China Shop and Other Poems, 2009.

The Writers I will be tagging include:  
Odia Ofeimun

Saturday, December 15, 2012

Scooby Doo Wrap 
for Korsica Liyaka Shepherd [R.I.P.]

I want to marry her and she's dead
erotic and funny, daring and scared

did not know that she was dead when
I stumbled upon her

aroused by her, loving her for several weeks
when it dawned on me that she had
passed away

that she had met her demise, raped and murdered,
found wrapped in a Scooby-Doo blanket

I felt cheated; the world had been robbed

who had made use of her, I wondered
like emptying a can of beer and flinging the can away

or a bag of chips and throwing the bag away

box or can or cartoon, disposed of,
after emptying it of its content

incensed by the thought of this even now
rather than expect more and more of her though,
it is necessary that I savor what is available

during my most recent engagement
with images of her
videos she made and left on YouTube

awake for two days, going on three, without having slept
stimulated by her; I had been missing her;
needing my fill of her; turned to her to be fulfilled

to quench thirst, satisfy appetite
for what she alone is able to fill my senses with

I found myself considering that it was all pointless,
my loving her as I do, my being in love with her,
actually in love with her, because she is dead

she is not here, no way for her to know of me or to respond

and it occurred to me that spiritually, she does exist still
and is possibly freer to know of me and to be with me
than if she was alive and living in Huston, Texas

this is where she died, by the way-
or where she was found dead-
it makes me so extraordinarily angry

I wanted to be able to connect with her mind though
connect with her mentally, communicate,
write to her and to become friends

share with her my poems of her
here with me, share with me,

love her more, I find, than the last girl
I was in a relationship with
relationship that is most likely over now

it is she with whom I am in love
for whom I live, my raison d'être at present

I always must have that someone
who stimulates me most

a love affair to wear like the clothes I wear
to wear like the skin I'm in

will we be strangers or could we be friends
would it suffice to get to know her mom or sister

or is there no one to alleviate the feeling of loss
of a kindred spirit

no one to approximate or to replace, exactly,
who was lost 

I get angry as well, confronting the loss
of  John F. Kennedy, who was killed,
so very violently, in 1963

who would kill someone it seems
is unaware of who all- of what all is attached
to what is damaged- to who is eliminated

loss of a life is loss for so many
I mean strings attached, popping
like ligaments in ones body - like nerve fibers

how hard it is to avoid saying the F word loudly,
explosively, like my dear friend
and fellow writer, Sonia, would

when some driver of another vehicle
behind her, beside her or before her
does something she considers
unforgivably stupid on the streets of Nassau,
with her and me in her parents'
great-big, grey Mecedes Benz

© Obediah Michael Smith, 2012
11:16 p.m. 14.12.12

Monday, September 24, 2012


not because it is his birthday
why you'd have seen him on TV
but because, at 42, he has passed away

and I am wondering why-
what a green, strong tree he was or I thought he was
strong and sturdy, always bright spirited

acknowledge only now that I used to envy
his seeming always to be on top of the world
on top of the mountain I was still climbing,
struggling to get to the summit of

I recall my surprise, two years ago,
upon commenting on how forward looking-
forward thinking he was- upon commented
on how aware he was of anyone or anything I mentioned

he pointed out that for more than twenty years
once every week, he meet with a support group
of survivors of drug abuse 

he used to abuse drugs, he confessed
that support group he said was his salvation

how incredulous, I thought
what an honor it was though
to be entrusted with his secret,
with what seemed unimaginable

is his having passed away attached to that old habit
was there relapse or was separation
from his wife to blame, breakup of a fragile family

I am well aware that the loss of such stability
can leave you off balance - that is if
you fail otherwise to get a grip

what could this loss of life be linked to, I wonder

certainly thought he'd have been around for decades
did not expect him to predeceased me
as rickety as this ride that I am on has become

what sturdy stuff he seemed made of
what could have lead to his sucking in
and expiring his last breath

was it of natural causes that he died-
was it an accident- was he murdered- God forbid

hope that was not the case
that he was robbed of life senselessly- needlessly

hope he was not wrenched violently from this world
part of this nation's horrible statistics- the body count,
the numbers mounting until the corpses in a heap
can be heaped up no more- mothers mourning for sons
gone too soon

he was from the good side of the tracks
those given to contemplation, reflection-
those used to stepping aside for others to get by

he always seemed as fearless
as he seemed happy: above it all
by what bullet or blow was he brought low

will have to wait to hear from his dear mother
from his sister or one of his three brothers

the four of them as close to me as siblings of my own
the wall between the yards of our two families
was unable at all to divide us, unable to keep us apart

© Obediah Michael Smith, 2012
1:41 p.m.  19.09.12

Sunday, September 16, 2012

Rusty Nuts & Rusty Bolts
for D'Anthra B. Adderley

1200 poems - as much as
or more than 1200 pounds
to get to suck her pussy
and not allowed to yet

soon it will be far from fresh
not at all what
I was paying on, paying for

not what I have paid for
several dozen times

have I been paying on-
have I paid
for what is stale already

I'd have done better by far
to have put what I've invested
in her, in Scotia, Royal or Finco

in the bank
I could have earned interest

I've invested in
what has been
thrown around,
beaten about

invested in what is certainly
not as fresh, not as virgin
as when my payments

© Obediah Michael Smith, 2012
16.09.12 4:12 a.m.

Friday, September 14, 2012

Fairy Tale Girl
for Tatiana Legáspy Alegría

light and water in her eyes
earrings I provided, mailed to her
got to her -
prayed that they would
and they did
what a joy it was
when they arrived

recall her e-mail telling me
of the call from the library to say
there was a package there for her

recall her telling me
that her mom or dad
had agreed to pick them up

photograph on facebook
of her wearing them was confirmation
they had arrived for sure

what a smile she wore
no woman on the globe
able to smile more sweetly

with earrings, with stones, one pink,
one green, she wears pink top-
fitting as well- as tight as her skin fits

and no one prettier
than she is in this picture,
smiling, with light,
with water in her eyes

my God,
for how long we have lived
without a word exchanged
without a word passing
between us

thought I did not love her anymore
thought our relationship was over
and done with

stumbled upon this picture of her
accompanying a poem on my blog

going on fifteen minutes
and I've been unable to look away

taken in again
by a look steadfast
by loveliness that cannot easily
be surpassed

available to be loyal to her
able to love her again right now
like I used to once
with all my heart, with all my soul

is it convenient, I wonder
for her to receive me, to have me back

my fairy tale girl
about a hundred poems written of her
since our encounter, in Costa Rica
when she was 16
I add this one to

want to return to looking
at photos of her and being aroused

want to return to being attached
in one way or another
and being inspired to write
more poems

Oh, Lord,
for communication to commence
between us
once again

our deep friendship
our countries tied together
by our tie

how deeply in love I used to be
can that emotional depth
be recovered

like precious things lost
in wreck that sank
to the sea bottom
worth going to the bottom after
worth going to the bottom for

I will be sifting
through pictures of her again
to pass the time-
for what I could find

to recover what I feared was lost
what I now want back

we have a history to extend
to add to

thread between us
so many times multiplied
multicolored, too strong to break
or to take for granted

since I was born, no woman
encountered more precious

born again in her
born again in me

together we make rainbows
great big arcs above Limón,
city in Costa Rica where we met
where she lives, where she was born

I will have to go back there
when I am unable to bear
absence, the gap between
when I saw her first
when I saw her last

widening and widening
like planets, drifting
further and further away
further and further apart

© Obediah Michael Smith, 2012
7:34 a.m. 10.09.12
When a Whale Comes Up for Air
for D'Anthra B. Adderley
was having intercourse with you all along
aware of that now, now that our status has been altered
now that we have been temporarily reclassified

but have we, actually, is that no more than superficial
our attachment, where it matters, sustains, deep down

can all that we've accumulated be reversed
all the tiny little connections, experiences

my yard is being addressed as I am writing, by the way
things being uprooted, overgrowth being chopped down

I can smell the sweet strong smell of soil being overturned
what was growing in it, pulled from it

made an arrangement- came to an agreement after all
or at long last - things happen when the time comes

how long you and I have held out, separated
unable to endure that anymore

with my phone off at present, you'd have to respond by e-mail
or connect by Skype, though Skype I do not like

how many tangents away from where I started-
from what I was directing at you initially

3:14 p.m., noises of children
from Uriah McPhee Primary School going by

two worlds through us are attached
the plug was pulled out, need it plugged in again

I have, for going on two weeks,
been living in the dark as it were
living with so much less to live for

admit that you've been suffering too
as much as me or more

you fat slob, you sweet pussy bitch
woman of mine from time to time

your two timing crime
for which you should be incarcerated

sentenced to life, to hard labor
on the chain gang or to hard labor
on my hard cock

until you learned what- learned who
you were living for

longing for crabby, wet, while in class,
doing your school work

crabby wet in the middle of a lecture
distracted by thoughts of
our perpetual intercourse

Oh, God, am I going to be able to deliver
when the time comes, her big crabby,
small and tight about my cock up in her

will she holler because it hurts
or because it was too sweet to bear

inserted in her/insert it in her
will she suck it first, insure
that it was hard enough and long enough
to open heaven-
to make it rain

Honey, my right foot, injured in Mexico,
months ago, some tiny bones dislocated
what I thought was healed entirely is not

are you whole, my darling, devoid entirely
of aches and pains- no ailments at all
to complain about

so much love and so much care
for every bone and every cell in your body
and for every strand of hair
springing anywhere
on you or from you

© Obediah Michael Smith, 2012
3:33 p.m. 14.09.12
Salt Sea Salty Tears
for D'Anthra B. Addreley

I have raged against her
and she has withstood it
like a ball in a game, played against a wall
like waves against a ship out in the ocean

symbolic of my thrusting against her
of my thrusting and thrusting within her

she indicates that she can well withstand
such delicious rivalry

how well we have, most of the time,
enjoyed our combats

withdrawn, separated though,
difficult as the devil to withstand

how the suffering of separation
penetrates, devastates

house that is my life
or in which I am living
without loving and being loved
to keep it standing, I fear-
I feel might just fall down- collapse
without her, having so much less purpose

how charged life used to be
in love and undergoing exchange

how changed, without her to bounce off of
to splash up against,
to splatter with waves, with salt sea

how bland life is without interaction
without her to shape it
without me shaking hers
without her shaking mine, shaking me

I am dying down like flames
lying down without her beside me

better by far to be naked on top of her
or to have her naked on top of me

wet with tears, with semen
with juices from her body

prefer when we are-
preferred when we were
messy together

used to be cleaner then, so much more pure
than my being- than my living poor and alone

without her voice, her laughter her burping
in my ear

© Obediah Michael Smith, 2012
2:30 a.m. 14.09.12