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Poetry by Willie Smith




I went out with the infinite.
We swapped spit
in the backseat of a jalopy.
Explored ourselves
while ignoring the movie.
Walked home from the parkinglot,
falling all over each other.
Detoured through the park.
Dallied on a bench.

I sneaked a hand up her skirt.
She held me by the stones.
We gazed at the stars.
I wanted to go all the way.
She said I could have more and more,
but not that.
My mouth to her bosom sank.
I kissed all galaxies known to man.
Above a zillion crickets,
she giggled: I hadn't scratched the skin.

My chin found her lap.
Her thighs spread.
The egg wet my face.
Till awake I became suggested.
Alone on my threshold,
with a scent on the fingers
and a hint in my tongue.





It threatened rain,
so I got out my gun, got in the car
and gunned it on down to the graveyard,
where it was dark and nobody would know,
but I knew the clouds would see clear.

I got out and got my gun out,
fired myriad rounds at the atmosphere
and gunned down the clouds.
Fog fell in patches, then cleared.
I got my gun down,
headed for the car;
overhead stars started to appear
and I again began to breathe in fear.

The more fired at, the more the stars broke out.
I shot more and more flared up.
I shot up
the sky, then drove home, sad as hell.
Shot the dog, shot the wife, shot my Playboys;
finally reloaded and waited for the sirens,
that never came. It began to rain.
I got in the car, backed out over the dog,
layed a patch on the wife's ass,
got going real good and
gunned it on down to the graveyard,

where it was dark and nobody would know,
but I knew the clouds would see clear.





Handguns are tempting beauties.
They exude aroma that transcends.
They inspire careful thought.
You hear them
scream tiny anthems as they hurry away,
heart deadset on life
perfect as a target.

But at twilight
handguns sob to be unloaded and left alone.
And no one listens, because their tears
are like piano wire begging to be hammered,
because their triggers
hang out like tongues frozen to a fencepost,
because their sad beauty repeats

to the instant of inaction. Once jammed,
their barrels take on the look of tombstones,
as if the dead remembered.





About the Author


Reasonably clean, fairly sober, Willie Smith is a harmless quintagenarian residing in Seattle, WA. Several of his mildly nauseating stories can be read in the current and last 3 or 4 issues of EXQUISITE CORPSE. His chapbooks EXECUTION STYLE and GO AHEAD SPIT ON ME are available from Dan Raphael's Unnum Press (raphael@aracnet.com). Black Heron Press published his novel OEDIPUS CADET in 1990.