Tuesday, March 31, 2009

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

Monday, March 30, 2009

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

Saturday, March 28, 2009

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

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

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

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

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.

Sunday, March 22, 2009

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

Saturday, March 21, 2009

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

Thursday, March 19, 2009

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

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

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

Saturday, March 14, 2009

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

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

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

Monday, March 09, 2009

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.

Sunday, March 08, 2009

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

Saturday, March 07, 2009

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

Wednesday, March 04, 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

Monday, March 02, 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

Sunday, March 01, 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