Kenny & The Beach Boys
for Erica Wells
enough to make a poem of
how timid I am
of her unreadable reactions
unmoved,
unable to be or unfriendly
unable to tell usually
what she's thinking or feeling
unable to be stimulated
so easily disconcerted
without reinforcement
without affirmation
emotional gaps
when interacting with her
usually too wide
as warm once as muffins
one sister or another used to make
some of the cake batter
pan just out of the oven
handed to me
could select anyone of a dozen
parting after the film debut
in Rawson Square recently
more cheer, more enthusiasm
than ever before
farewell was hello
provided a cheek for a kiss
a wish which was a dessert dish
scoop of ice cream or two to fill it
miss my sisters' introductions
to life's finest things
Big J, The Nassau Beach,
The Rum Keg
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
1:36 a.m. 31.03.09
I I Captain
is the divine in the ship
in the mix always
pulling the strings of the sails
master of the wind
mastering the wind
do I/do we need be alarmed
at any hour of night or day
whatever way the wind blows
however fiercely
I need to learn to be at peace
to rest assured
I need to let go
I need to let God
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
10:17 p.m. 14.03.09
Kemp Road Kids
fuck is a heavy duty word
hate to see it/to hear it
being employed
in just any circumstance
uttered, overused
by children passing along my street
like taking out a hundred dollar bill
to buy candy
why use such a note
when small change would suffice
would be sufficient
save fuck for when there is
a heavy load to lift
for when a forklift is needed
why use what is designated
to pick up boulders
to pick up sticks
or to pick up paper
or to remove the wrapper
from a mint
we must allow innocence
to sustain as long as it can
as long as we're able
our children are too soon in the deep
in deep shit, drowning, wading
when they should be
playing in the shallows
splashing near the beach
with adults watching
as fascinated as
when we watch kids frolic
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
10:31 p.m. 14.03.09
Like Crab Lice
is coming into being
itself not a sort of cancer
a sort of plague
easily triggered off
cells multiplying
doing it over and over
again and again
earth, creation
sick with us, sick of us
cancers we ourselves
contract/develop
come along to eliminate us
to regulate us
why do we think
that we are less scornful
than rats
we imagine there is weeping
what if there is rejoicing
in heaven
when we are
in numbers great or small
eliminated
even if it is through stupidity
or through self-destruction
individually or in numbers
great or small
are we too conceited
to imagine ourselves
a nuisance
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
4:18 p.m. 23.03.09
Possibilities Popop
for D'Andra Wilson
until the children, elated,
were bored or exhausted
where was your little sister though
why had she not collapsed, spent
it seems she was still being stimulated
or was she with the Williams, whom she knows
was she at home
the two other children
outside our circle, outside of art appreciation
after a little while involved
how involved we were
why we were, that we were
more than I bargained for
expected or anticipated
a million years apart, age-wise
yet like two friends, like old friends
a poet and a Chemical engineering student
home from Canada's cold weather, cold fingers
how you're able to stand it, I know not, I couldn't
there for a week or so, I thought I'd freeze
though the white white snow and the cold cold cold
with the sun out, shining, was beautiful
I knew I was far from home
brave soldier, little girl still
though not as little as your little sister
how keenly intelligent you both seem
what a loyal friend you have
her two young relatives, in spite of being spent
in spite of just hanging on,
wanting our conversation to be over,
were quite lovely, quite delightful also
what would the evening have been
without everybody in the party
without everybody's contribution
how deeply we entered each other, you and I
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
2:15 a.m. 11.05.08
Sea Change
what about what you did to me
don't think it was not a two-way street
you tried to sweep me off my feet
hard to believe I’m still standing
what you served was too too sweet
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
4:44 p.m. 28.03.09
Gee Whiz
for Chelsa
here and there
out and about together
how fierce I wonder
would be the contest
would I be able to sustain us
to keep her for myself
this one, that one
snatching at us, at her
wanting all or wanting piece
to shove in their faces
to shove their faces in
where would I
have to put her to keep her
I'd need a jewelry box
or a case like the one
I keep my glasses in
to keep her in, to keep her safe
how careful I am
how careful I've been
about having little or nothing to lose
avoiding being vulnerable
to avoid being hurt
things which/those who
mean the most to me
I keep in poems, hide in poems
safe from those
who won't crack open a book
timid of those who'd crack heads
woman I love
would try to or want to
timid of opposition, avoid contest
and lose out, miss out
on so much love, on so much life
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
8:25 p.m. 25.03.09
Enjoyable Still
for N.T-B.
brown girl
a man's wife
what could I do
I got the flu
as in love
as if ill
no doctor to turn to
a doctor's wife
turn to him
he might turn me
into an insect
or a frog with warts
croaking upon a log
she alone to turn to
for medicine for love
heart as swiftly beating
as a galloping horse
running towards her
or running away
am I coming or going
going or coming
heart at times
like hooves of horses
at other times
like wings of birds, fluttering
she inspires transformation
transportation, translation
I get carried away
tongue tied
in spite of verse
though I give it voice
I'm all shook up
milk shake with eggs
I'd need such a punch
were I to met her
Zeus, in the form of a swan
and Leda
meeting, mating
in mid-air
what I'd accomplish
before letting her drop
with a splash
into the river
from which I'd have
fished her up
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
9:28 p.m. 22.03.09
Looking Allowed
for Gina Lowe
i.
I had been imagining distance,
a wider gap
imaging ourselves
pushed or pulled or shoved apart
imagined that you'd leapt
into the pool of blood that's my heart
with you within that lake of love
it began to heat up, began to boil
to save yourself, your soul
you leapt out once again and went
and gone
what terrible loss before gain,
before I could add you, count you,
number your bones with mine,
your cells with the cells of my anatomy
thought these thoughts
feared these fears
only to find you
with nothing at all against me
with fingernails polished black
as near as I feared you were far
our second meeting, moving
affirmation I'd not dreamed of
"Wow!" you said of what I wrote
of what you inspired
I'd not heard from you, you said,
apologizing,
because you were speechless
ii.
too emotional almost
to see her again
I'd been assuming
I'd alienated her
unaware until I was near her again
what her silence meant
unaware how quickly
her heart was thumping
not with antipathy
not with resentment
but flatteringly, in awe
how amazed I was
to see what I saw
to come to know
what she was thinking
what she was feeling
of what I had written
of my word-portrait of her
I knew I'd looked deep
I knew I'd seen far
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
Written on Monday, March 23, 2009
between 4:48 p.m. and 10:34 p.m.
Dream Girl
ended up with a girl about my neck
like a noose, like a necklace
like an anaconda or a fowl snake
only time could tell
what she’d have turned into
or turned out to be
but it was necessary
to wake up to pee
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
12:55 p.m. 22.03.09
Delicate Seas
for Tia
almost scared to touch you
juicy as you is
even with my pen,
like when you bite a peach,
the juice might spout
might break the skin
and stain my shirt
what a meal you are
meat and fruit and vegetables
to bite into and chew
mango juice, skin to tear off
with my teeth
must remove your slippers
from your feet
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
12:04 a.m. 21.03.09
Daria
poetry you could go to bed with
words she assembles
like chewable toffee
she evokes nature, weather, wind
sweat, skin
sensations like these
wind in the trees
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
11:25 p.m. 18.03.09
Tune for an Old Piano
for D. D. Katzeva
the companion of the black one
the shiny white one
black one outside in the sun,
in the rain, long ago lost its finish
its sheen
no longer used to show off
or show off at or show off with
white one, with who sat at it,
sat to play, who were in the limelight
I noticed these companions,
this counterpoint, knew then that
my story, my poem was incomplete
hadn't the inspiration necessary
to tackle contrast, the story's other part
hadn't the imaginative strength
or was it interest sufficient
to climb that other hill,
another hill of creativity
white piano though, I knew
recently performed on
centre of concerts
ending in applause
black one with lock
for who knows/for God knows what
grown quiet, gone quiet
mouth shut, jaws locked
what if allowed, might it say
jealous as hell I know, of shiny piano,
piano tuner visits to service it
come along to steal the show
the black piano once evoked applause
only applause now, rain falling on it
sun drying it, cracking and peeling it
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
3:44 a.m. 14.03.09
Sri Lankan Diplomat
for Indran Amirthanayagam
pinch he holds language in
unable to help but cry out, cry ouch
intense interest in alphabet
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
3:38 p.m. 18.02.09
Cardboard Box
the mind can bend
and it can break
or it can blend
and it can break like waves
up against rocks
the mind can snap
can rip like metal, like a hinge
too many times
back and forth
the mind can break off from the mind
after banging banging
in the storm of life
or we can laugh
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
3:05 p.m. 14.03.09
A Bite Out of Silence
how can you allow a piano
to just drop dead
fingers and feet unavailable
to make it make music
black and white keys, like teeth
meeting silence, listening ears
I know this piano
has seen better days
had its hay day a long time ago
hay day, a long way away
like an old black dog
hardly able now to bark or to bite
a poet too shall go this way
shall be this way one day
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
1:40 p.m. 23.02.09
55
for Gina Lowe
i.
wash her body
wash her face
wash her all over
wash her over board
with my eyes
though she’s fully clothed
dressed for work
a bank teller
attired nicely
I inspect her
how her blouse fits
where her pants goes
how well it knows her
how intimate
her clothes and she
I look and eye envy
wish I knew her
as well as cloth does
made into outfits
made to outfit her
I outfit her or attempt to
with this poem
ii.
I is a ol man
I wish I wasn’
30 years ago though
she’d not have been born
it is this day though
as it is, with what’s in it
why I am
as happy as can be
I must not wish
anything otherwise
a strand out of place
or differently dyed
would change the universe
would take her away
how she braces herself
for words, for my remarks
like one braces for a blow
not to be blown away
blown over or blown down
wish I were beautiful still
new still
worthy of a batter of us two
I’d like to mix in, mix with
mix up
mixed nuts in a tin, in a bowl
to reach into
until it were empty of her
of me
ourselves to eat, salted,
until we were fresh
two rivers flowing
into a fjord
iii.
pen seeks a wife, a poem
run into a planet, with another,
perfectly aligned
smile open a door inside
rusted shut
room I’d been trying
to open, to enter but couldn’t
how forceful a smile is
her smile is
how forceful
a smile can be
as pretty as peace
can launch ships, can end wars
wrenched by a smile
can open heaven
can make it rain
can make sunshine
can make it snow
what an omnipotent force
able to loosen nuts and bolts
take things apart
disassemble
reassemble
vehicle I am
vehicle I’m in
iv.
how do I look to her
at her
do I look through her
I could never tell
by looking in the mirror
no magic passes
between me and me
In the toilet with her
someone adds himself
and everything changes
is reconfigured
when the door bangs
when he goes
to the pee bowl
when he whips his pee out
what were we up to
prior to this intrusion
prior to this intrusion
into our poem on paper towel
what was I about to
imagine into being
or to wish was
out of the men’s room
what have I to say to her
of disconnection
of this connection
am I richer because of it
or with it
is my utter poverty revealed
emphasized
like a chord
like discord
v.
delicious mouth
what delicious dishes
she must have eaten
she must eat
her mouth to savor
after all she’s savored
licks lips, lips devour tidbits
morsel of that, morsel of this
urge to take her to dinner
as great as the urge
to have her for dinner
vi.
old age like AIDS
like a thing you’ve caught
similarly, an outfit
you’re unable to take off
is my age, is old age
a thing I’m unable
to kiss her with
to be avoided
like a thing she might catch
as well as being old
I am uncertain about my health
I am as shabby
as the house I live in
elegant though we are
though full of expensive things
unable to afford to maintain
my house or myself as I’d wish
my house and me
in states of disrepair
to offset my house, its shabbiness,
I hang priceless paintings everywhere
over all my walls
do I though, when I see her
light up, a Christmas tree
does seeing her/could seeing her
for the rest of my days
make me beautiful
like the moon, though without light
reflects the sun
son of ours would combine
his mother's gifts and mine
I could marry her
Picasso married
Jacqueline Roque
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
Part i. written Friday, 13.02.09,
completed at 3:32 p.m.
Parts ii. to vi. written between
4:04 p.m., Friday, 06.03.09 and
4:24 a.m., Saturday, 07.03.09.
Todorka Peak
for D. D. Katzeva
i.
good too good to happen to me
too good for me to be happy
to be complete
were my life to add up finally,
I’d weep
some seeing me would think
what would be the best day of my life
were a crisis I were caught in
crying like a faucet leaking
affected like this by joy
ii.
too gracious to waste interest in her
to waste interested eyes
acknowledge eyes with eyes
eyes to trade with
what would she give me for flowers
for a bouquet of roses
would she, upon quick feet,
find a vase to place them in
a bit of water at the bottom of it
would she cut the ends of their stalks
to keep them fresh longer, alive longer
how I long for someone
to enable me, to cause me
to remain around longer
on planet earth
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
11:53 a.m. 20.02.09
Impossible to Map
i.
I gat a hang over
because of it,
I gatter hang over
the toilet bowl
and throw up my guts
ii.
how closely related
are the word
and the wood of the cross
the weight of the wood
and the weight of the word
the word made flesh
and the wood,
connected by nails
the weight of the word
hanging, weighing
upon nails, pulling
or trying to pull away
the word in pain
my pen in my hand
like the pins
like the pain
in the hands of the word
nothing more bitter
and nothing more sweet
iii.
little short girl in her uniform
skirt with its tight waist band
with its broad waist band
with powder about her neck
like a noose, like a moose
without entirely
undoing her loveliness
I am, nonetheless
drawn to her, attracted to her
to oddity
iv.
I write like needing to
leap onto the back
of a galloping horse
to escape
to get the hell out of town
v.
Sidney Poitier
is what we are capable of
Burt Williams
are who most of us are
why therefore
do we fail to blossom,
fail to flower
why does our hour
so often never come
before death knocks at our door
why must we go abroad
go elsewhere to flower
to tower
why are we
who remain at home
limited
like we are stunted,
dun-grow
when generally,
we are red wood trees
vi.
little Rolle girl
scrawny as could be
get on the bus in the morning
on East Street
it is her mother who stops it
who waits with her
who sticks a finger out
without smiling
makes sure she touches her child
in uniform, with her back pack
as they part
her child, off to school
she to return home
how different their days are
how divided until she,
on the bus, returns
breakfast before she left
she’d have dinner
when she returns
in her back pack with her books
there are biscuits
there’s an apple
there’s a tuna fish sandwich
vii.
how ragged my mind is
how rugged my life is
rugged road,
rugged cross
life to keep or to toss away
mind to seek
in lost and found
difficult to locate
I look for my mind
with this pen in my hand
with pen,
attempt to pin it to paper
viii.
how can I be well if she isn’t
if she is not
my baby ain’t well
and that ain’t good
is it something she’s abusing
or is someone abusing her
a prayer to pray
to make her better
if there is one
allow me words, oh, God
to say to thee
to pray to thee
to make her well
to relieve her
of whatever is amiss
restore her, I pray, please
too good to me
to see her suffer
to know she is in pain
to know there is dis-ease
or disease of whatever order
of whatever sort
sort her out
like the sort of things
needing organizing
and me, Lord
while you’re at it
lend a hand
lay your hand upon me
laying on of hands
all any of us need
Vanessa or that lame man
or me
ix.
pen in my hand always
instead of
a bottle of Guinness
or a bottle of beer
I, as inebriated as any
who keeps a half pint
or pint in the back pocket
of his pants
or quart bottles
in his cabinet at home
the opposite pole
of consumption,
says Marion Bethel,
is not starvation
instead of consumption
I am producing
drunk on ink
going out of my pen
into poems
as drunk as an alcoholic
x.
is Jazz just a lot of wind
just shooting the breeze
Mozart just a lot of notes
the rain so many more
so many fingers falling
here and there
on that and this
not even the rain,
says e.e. cummings
of his beloved,
has such small hands
rats, some birds
have such small feet
babies, until they’re able
to get to their feet,
across the earth, creep
is Jazz just a lot of wind,
just shooting the breeze
what though, what then
is the perfect metaphor
for poetry
this business I’m in
this business in me
xi.
flicker of familiarity,
of recognition
somehow, for some reason
eyes not allowed to meet
cat and mouse eyes
cat and mouse world
why must she
why does she
hide from me
in public/publically
all I long to do is greet her,
wave, say hello
not allowed to
she does not let me
just that I’d turn,
find her fleeing, as it were
averting her eyes
looking away
complicating
what could be simple
could be plain
what would be plain and simple
if only she’d permit
if only she’d let it be
I thought she was snubbing me
not that simple though
not that plain or mean
more generous
than I could ask for or imagine
what signs to read
what language to apprehend
to comprehend
woman flickering off and on
like insect in the wilds
wild flowers to fertilize
to flit in and out of
to alight upon
dance they do
impossible to map
this woman’s heart or thoughts
difficult to tap into
xii. Gerber
who makes baby food
made so much dough
makes pee bowls now
makes pee bowls too
to see this name
on this thing to piss in
on this thing I’ve flushed
shocking when I’m used to it
being attached
to a very different item
to bottles full of food
to feed babies from
with tiny spoons
xiii.
she wrote these
with her pale eyes
conceived these
with those pale blue eyes
what has seeing
to do with
the colors our pupils are
what has feeling to do
with skin color
or bruising
or not being bruised
abusing
or not being abused
she wrote these poems in Spanish
with those pale blue eyes
these poems
on these delicate pages
what an arrangement
these words, these poems
in Spanish
I’m unable yet to understand
as able to read these
as I’m able to read ants
in a pattern, crawling
where these words are going
or carrying me
I am not going,
I am uncertain
how these compound
the need to know Spanish
to understand it,
only way to be able
to read her blue eyes
to know what
these blue eyes are saying
coconut palm trees swaying
wings of gulls flapping
these birds climbing
how cold it is today
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
Written between 1:20 a.m. and
5:47 p.m., Thursday, March 5, 2009
Hawkins Hill
i.
Clifton Ambrister
why don’t I have the hook up
why have I instead, the hiccup
ii.
Vanessa Linden
fed up with me yet
with friendship
with needy me,
with neediness
must you shed me like leaves
should I prepare
to be dropped like a weight
like a date from a palm tree
one from an orange bunch
how nervous I am
about depending
about dependency
after having ascended
what I was a part of though
a part of then
apart from now
my father’s enterprise
chicken farm, cattle farm
sheep and goats to raise, to feed
green pigeon peas to fill sacks with
pigs squealing to feed
and to get pork from
mutton to sell
and eggs and cheese
ham to slice and sausage
sugar to weigh
I too used to keep shop
I too had customers to serve
I wore your shoes once
armed with a pen, with poems
once with bow, with spear
we hunted, we gathered
what you serve
you pump into cups
customer’s names on them
wish I were legitimate
I’m your illegitimate child
hungry, crying for soy milk
iii.
Robert Johnson
exposure to what
only the wretched knows
the blows which break the nose
this to write with, to write about
to inspire art
how can I, without exposure to reality
rare, raw,
taste blood
offer it up
such a cup, such a supper
he eats the breakfast of champions
some for breakfast, have champagne
I somewhere in between
walking over Hawkin’s Hill
writing poetry in the dark
a little afraid
he is the scary element
in such areas
timidity is the cloth
of which my outfits are made
my pen in a trembling hand
heart skipping a beat
as I go about
this city streets
iv.
Palm Wine
the left out are having a party
and you’re not and we’re not invited
party we used to have
we can no longer have
because they would crash it
would crush it
crush us like crushed ice
©Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
Written between 6:55 p.m.
and 10:46 p.m. Tuesday,
March 3, 2009
Seven Heavens
i. CARL
you don’t pay to breathe
or require permission to
fortunately
politicians to depend upon
even for air
were it necessary to depend
you’d drop out, drop down
drop dead
of what use are poets
in a place like this
what amount of votes
do poets gather
what you do for country
not what matters
what you contribute
to their being elected or reelected
is what counts
counting snow flakes in Canada
what I need to be doing
or better still, in Russia
plants in small pots, growing
sitting upon my window sill
need to go
from this silly situation
I call home
call home now and then
e-mail them, those I’d miss
in need of/I need a
change of perspective
not going to stay here
and beg bread
chase politicians for pittances
for scraps of that, of this
oasis in the desert
Kirk in the desert
musicians, classical music
piano, horn, flute
my pen in my fist though
always an oasis in a desert
cornucopia overturned
fruit rolling, falling
when the muses are upon me
like the Philistines upon Samson
his hair shaved off
hope I’d not have
to push apart pillars
bring the building down
around/upon me
Sonata for Horn, op 17,
early Beethoven
I another artist with a bad temper
with only an ink pen to express it
Ministry of Education,
Youth, Sports and Culture
tired of assisting me, financially
should I be tired, grow tired
of the pain, of the pen
look what these mothers
allow themselves
from the public purse
compare this with
the spit I get, I’ve gotten
ii. VANESSA
what a divine girl
moment of eye contact
enough to transport me,
transform me
connected to another world
to her world
however enigmatic
I suspect some unhappiness
some dissatisfaction
I am unable to alter
unable to fix with poetry
with inexpensive gift
from afar, from away
that she was on my mind,
with me while abroad
is what is priceless
closeness, the ultimate gift
is her son back home again
about what is she worried,
unhappy
wish I were able to get to/
get at the root of it
pull it up, transplant it
in soil and sun and rain
my wish is that she thrive
as bamboo does
when they begin to shoot,
to sprout
I want her spirit tall as giraffes
with plains as vast to roam,
to cross, to own
iii. OBAMA
there is a black family
in the White House
Obama T- shirt
in a store window
I take a step back,
take a second look
opening stanza of this poem
to meditate upon
Obama not the first
black super star
the U.S.A. has thrown up,
thrown us
Jackie Robinson, Joe Louis,
Bill Cosby, Sidney Poitier
Michael Jordan, Michael Jackson,
Oprah Winfrey, Tiger Woods
Whitney Houston, Sonny Liston,
Cassius Clay, Thurgood Marshall,
Frederick Douglas, Langston Hughes
Du Bois, Wright, Baldwin, Giovanni
all these are giants
Robeson, King, Malcolm,
Denzel Washington, Halle Berry
many belong
to this pantheon of accomplishment
best upon the planet
upon the globe
at being themselves
at what they do
Amiri Baraka
no one in the world
able to do what he does
we have been acting for ages
changing masks
president, another role to play
Obama far better able to play it
than Ronald Raegan
oh, when the actor’s mask
becomes his face
able then to taste honey
iv.
to have been put down
like they have been
like we have been
only to pop up
though late, possibly
like blackened toast
to throw away or to scrape off
like Tennyson’s:
With blackest moss the flower-pots
Were thickly crusted one and all:
black people, black women
affect me as if I were other/
from elsewhere
could it be self-love/
admiration of self
as deep rooted as this
or is it what
I’ve been uprooted from
false separation,
forced separation
to suffer, to endure
is it acknowledgement
of a lie told
what is most beautiful
is ugly
able to see truth
and to cry out, to point,
“Look!”
like that child, “Look!
the emperor’s naked!”
I see black women
and were it not for idolatry
I’d fall upon my knees
it is the divine though
that I see and acknowledge
awe almost too much to bear
who I behold with so much passion,
enthusiasm
imagining they’re ordinary,
convinced they’re ordinary
look back at me in disbelief
imagining I’ve gone crazy
v. CRYSTAL
to go from near to far apart
I recall Blind Blake:
Mama what a pain I gat
to do without her
to live without her
when I thought
we were attached
what she’s attached to though
is the stem of a glass
and to what’s in the glass
in glass after glass she empties
without at all affecting thirst
is that emptiness within us
glass or chalice or cup
of paper or china or what
or is emptiness within
a window frame to look out
upon landscape, seascape
she wants to escape
our intimacy
she used to squeal
whenever she saw me
she used to climb up on me
arms and legs about me
now it seem she’s vex with me,
with poetry
or has someone, jealous of us
set her against me, wants us apart
or is it marijuana, alcohol
or her lesbianism
getting or gotten between us
vi. CHELSA
how can one stay away
from a place like this
from a plate like this
from a date like this
delight like this, twist like this
twist there are those
who try to convince us
was over, no longer existed
cinnamon twist
or a hug and a kiss
intertwined with
the most beautiful women
imaginable
I kid you not
I exaggerate not even a little bit
any superlative I can think of
is gross understatement
see them and drool
as much a fool for love as I
vii. MICHELLE
nothing, no one on the street
can be worse than this music
loosening all my bones
and cells and ideas
I’m out of here!
invited to fear the streets,
the dark
say these are not safe
but how dark it is
among who assume
they’re in the light
delighting in life
what assault to be visited
upon one, upon us
by who assume
they entertain us, sustain us
without end running
attempting to get away
from people, from community
from society
how unpleasant people are
experimenting with torture
subjecting themselves to it
what is pleasant
no longer sought after
no longer appreciated
as if no longer able to feel
what did not cause pain
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
Written between 4:25 p.m.
and 10:20 p.m. Sunday,
1st March 2009
West Hill Street
for A.A.
sea like pussy
I’m able to see
that pleasing to me
from the hill top
from West Hill Street
over roof tops, over trees
bits of blue sea
waving to me
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
4:39 p.m. 06.11.08
Black Dick
I most certainly
did not make me black
if you wish therefore
to grapple with that
necessary that you
contact our Maker
it hurts no more
weighs no more
than whatever color you are
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
8:21 p.m. 21.02.09
