I say to my woman, "Jeffers was
a great poet. think of a title
like Be Angry At The Sun. don't you
realize how great that is?

"you like that negative stuff." she
says

"positively," I agree, finishing my
drink and pouring another.
"in one of Jeffers' poems, not the sun poem,
this woman ***** a stallion because her
husband is such a gross spirit. and it's
believable. then the husband goes out
to **** the stallion and the stallion
kills him."

"I never heard of Jeffers," she
says.

"you never heard of Big Sur? Jeffers
made Big Sur famous just like D. H. Lawrence
made Taos famous. when a
great writer writes about where he
lives the mob comes in and takes
over."

"well you write about San Pedro," she
says.

"yeah," I say, "and have you read the
papers lately? they are going to construct
a marina here, one of the largest in the
world, millions and billions of dollars,
there is going to be a huge shopping
center, yachts and condominiums every-
where!"

"and to think," my woman says smiling, "that you've only
lived here for three years!"

"I still think," I say,
changing the subject,
"you ought to read Jeffers."

What are pleasure and pain to us,
Held in the grip of time's hand, as we are?
Hostage to the intervention of circumstance,
Or privy to the secrets of youth or age;
What do we know, and who could we tell it to,
Even if somebody wanted to listen to us?

What am I, that I should be walled in by your eyes;
When you could choose, out of the entire world,
Why choose something tangent, perishable,
Entangled in this solitude of emotion?
Our paths are lonely, though we pass close by,
Caught up in our own brand of darkness,
Suffering our own unquiet silences.

We are impenetrable forests
Lost inside of a fairy tale,
Dreamed up by an imaginary god
Who is so long ago,
So far away, by now..

coffee in the night wakes me for the evening,
sipping as I listen to cool tunes
from the lady strummer sooth,
oh the taste of a nice fresh brew,
potent and dark, the caffeine streams
through blood to the brain,
nice quick buzzbuzzbee
in my head.
reprieve from the shop to the abode no one knows,
down the road curved heavy I strode
and sank deep into muses sweet song,
echo ear to ear soul soothsayer,
calm coffee nerves,
trade lines of rhyme
in a compact black
notebook of wonders belonging
none other to d-bake,
spirit of the sun, wandering peace beast
with worthy words and steady grooves.
come midnight go and its time to depart.
come home to dark demons
seeping 'round corridors and corners,
peeking for a sight of frightened prey
to pounce on invisibly,
startled through and through,
spooks steering to insanity, must
seek shelter ‘**** covers with sleepytime tea.
long discussions over late telephone,
with lady of dreams come true,
of one consciousness such that no puzzle piece
stands apart and one love
binds the confines of it all ,
mind shatteringly simple yet
most don’t seem to see
the beauty of all infinitely one.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
I have to admit my weakness,
my inability to control my carnal urges.

I have reached again into the depths
of my cupboard where I have vowed
to never enter with a hungry stomach.

And so the temptation of linguine
and innocent tiny shells
crowded into my head
instead of heavenly angel hair.

I have faith that only you
can absolve me of my sins
and twenty pounds, more or less,
a 10% tithe to my Semolina God.

Then there is the matter of the cheese.
Forgive me, please.

When I needed love, it was gone
I was alone and I was lost
Listening only to a sad song
I needed someone to be there

The song played and played
She came knocking on my door
She came in and then she stayed
She spent the night and we made love

But on the next day she had to go
So I watched her as she dressed
My body still wanted her so
I said nothing as she left

Now two days have gone past
The lady is at my door
Once again the night will last
As once again she is in my bed

So is this all just pretend
Will my lady ever really exist
Will my lonely solitude end
Will you be my lady at the door



copyright Chris Smith 2007

I read that he lost a suitcase full of manuscripts on a
train and that they never were recovered.
I can't match the agony of this
but the other night I wrote a 3-page poem
upon this computer
and through my lack of diligence and
practice
and by playing around with commands
on the menu
I somehow managed to erase the poem
forever.
believe me, such a thing is difficult to do
even for a novice
but I somehow managed to do
it.

now I don't think this 3-pager was immor-
tal
but there were some crazy wild lines,
now gone forever.
it bothers more than a touch, it's some-
thing like knocking over a good bottle of
wine.

and writing about it hardly makes a good
poem.
still, I thought somehow you'd like to
know?

if not, at least you've read this far
and there could be better work
down the line.

let's hope so, for your sake
and
mine.

Leave your intoxication.
Accept the few outbursts,
the many bouts of sadness.

Study how to prolong joy.
Keep it with you.
There are better things to forget.

Don't depend on the pen
for too long.
That is addictive self-reliance.

The guilty pleasures are fine,
so are the times when you consider
the deep, red bathing regime.

The way out can be appealing,
like the untainted skin of a late teen,
but they are better things.

One more hit, one more drink
And you'll forget the pain
If you feel that little stab
Well, down the hatch again
You cannot ignore reality
Dreams only make the pain increase
So take this pill, accept this life
You can do that at least
You don't have to be happy
But you don't have to be sad
Just chill and accept your life
Take this medicine, it will make you feel better
Let it numb you
It will create a reality
Where the past does not exist
It will create a world
Where your emotions aren't overwhelming
Where you can just be,
Free of yourself
And everyone else
Free of worry of time and noise
Free of pain, of love, of choice
You are free of caring if he's there or not,
If he was at all,
That he is not enough.
You are free of the darkness, my friend
But don't let this fool you,
It is not light.

during my worst times
on the park benches
in the jails
or living with
******
I always had this certain
contentment-
I wouldn't call it
happiness-
it was more of an inner
balance
that settled for
whatever was occuring
and it helped in the
factories
and when relationships
went wrong
with the
girls.
it helped
through the
wars and the
hangovers
the backalley fights
the
hospitals.
to awaken in a cheap room
in a strange city and
pull up the shade-
this was the craziest kind of
contentment

and to walk across the floor
to an old dresser with a
cracked mirror-
see myself, ugly,
grinning at it all.
what matters most is
how well you
walk through the
fire.