Bud Smith's Blog: Bud Smith , page 16

Partner’d Up

Happy wife happy

life, I hope so

I’ve been picking flowers

growing out of brick walls

been petting the moss

showing on the north

side of telephone poles

been drinking my way

through all the wolf paw puddles

happy wife hanging

out the window

happy wife waving

as I walk down the street

happy wife sharing her umbrella and her Advil and holding my sunglasses when the sun penetrates a cloud

good husband carrying a thousand pounds up the stairs

good husband lighting the candles and placing each lit candle in his mouth

good husband has memorized the Einstein quote that says

“If you can’t explain something

to a six year old you probably

don’t understand it”

and all the neighbors place their ear against a sweating wall

and all the neighbors smile

at breaking dishes, at moans

at Beethoven being eaten alive

by moths

how many neighbors

how many how many

know which way the arrow of life is flying?

ADVANCED REVIEW COPIES OF F-250 AVAILABLE TO REVIEWERS

“POW WOW” Published at Black Listed Magazine

Yesterday was a pretty good day. Packed up a lot of the TOO MUCH anthology, to be mailed to all contributors. Crazy. You should see the pile of books. Some are going all the way to the UK and Ireland. Always nice to see the word getting out far an wide about Unknown Press titles.

In the afternoon, I sent out acceptances and rejections for Uno Kudo Volume 4, a lit meets art mag that i edit with Aaron Dietz and Erin McParland. So excited to see the new volume of stories and poems go to print once all the art selections are finalized.

Also, saw that Black Listed Magazine ran my poem Pow Wow yesterday. You can see it http://black-listedmagazine.blogspot.com/2014/08/pow-wow-by-bud-smith.html?m=1

Thanks to Mike Meraz for running the poem.

Anyways, I’m back at work today and of it’s anything like it was Friday, I’ll be here at the oil refinery until midnight.

At The Palms

 

we came back from the beach, carrying the empty bottle of tequila, the unused sun tan lotion, the wet towels, the radio.
there was a wedding about to start on the outdoor patio of our hotel. the stairs to our room were blocked by a man in a dark suit and dark sunglasses.

he’d have moved, of course, but I didn’t feel like asking, and he didn’t offer.
that’s how life works sometimes.

so, not thinking clearly, we stepped into the pool, instead. and swam. and swam. and swam.
and on the patio, people seated in white slat chairs at the wedding, waited, waited for the bride, waited for cake, waited for someone to kick us out of the pool, but no one did. they all watched us swim, though, as if we were the opening act.
the sun fell too. that was the other nice part.

two security guards stood on the lip of the pool, arms crossed, watching us swim.
“come in,” i said, “water’s perfect.”
not even a smile.

candles flickered. palm trees swayed. a golden moon rose over the hotel.

that’s when the Wagner began, a small girl with an orange cello. and the bride proceeded past the pool, to the waiting crowd. and a hush was spread across the peninsula

my wife and I bobbed in the deep end. humming along.

then we noticed the groom, with his white lily pinned to his tan tuxedo. he looked bullet proof. and the bride made it all the way across the flickering patio, and the Wagner stopped.

the priest began to talk, as priests are known to do, but we could not hear the priest.
so we swam again. slow laps. slow doggie paddle.

it didn’t take long. the ceremony ended. a big kiss.
we clapped too.

“sooner or later, the whole wedding will wind up in this pool,” my wife said.

“they’d be crazy not too.”

“they’ll jump right in, in their suits and everything.”

“and the bride in her gown.”

“and the security guards’

“all of them.”

“it’d be horrible luck not to do that.”

“exactly.”

the DJ put party music on. my wife and I started to dance in the pool. the air cooled off outside and the water felt warmer. and warmer and warmer. but no one came in the pool with us. imagine that.
we danced all night in the pool, the wedding happening on the patio. us in the water, never getting out. and then the wedding ending. and the music ending. and the moon past the center of the horizon and going back down into the sea. and us still swimming and dancing and laughing.

me pissing, and her pissing, I’m sure.

happiest, of anyone in florida.

Poem ‘Cause I Miss My Wife

Rose Petals and Ripe Berries 
 
 
while you are away
I kiss your picture
in the gold frame
on the dresser by the door 
the traffic lights are all yellow
and blinking hazard
hazard hazard, every single
one of them. 
the stairs are slick
and when I do
your laundry
I hang it up to dry
adding a new step
I usually don’t need: 
folding it and putting it away 
in your dresser
in the orange hallway. 
even your makeup mirror 
is lonely, becoming dusty
I turn your hot iron
on sometimes 
just to keep the circuits going 
me, I’m fine,
I’ve got plenty to do 
I’ve circled the date 
on the calendar
ripe wild red marker 
and I can see where
and when you’re coming back
I’ve got the chair facing
perfect, and the date
larger than life
it’s not soon enough. 
and it’s not
true love
unless you’re
foaming at the mouth.

New short story, “Forks, Knives, Spoons, So On”

Here’s a short story about a house full of people failing at even failing. The non-essential, relentless need to make art, even out of turtles. And a woman who might not be a bride anymore, but has made it her artistic statement. Also: bunch of lost cutlery. 

http://fictionaut.com/stories/bud-smi...

3 poems for August

 

point taken

I wanna buy Beethoven a beer
but they insist I’ve missed
my chance, I wanna jump
through the ceiling and crash
down on another version
of the sugar glass floor
you can take me
or you can tell me to go
I’m ambivalent, quiet, neutral
but when cornered I sing!
that’s a warning shot, man
I sing bad, break all your windows
and mirrors and lots of bad luck
tonight all my heroes are dancing
it’s enough to make a grown man
give up, and in the morning
go out and get a real job
and stop living in another
dimension with clouds kissing
all down the front of my shirt
and pulling my fly open with their teeth
what? you’ve never been
blown by a cloud before, grow up.

I got all my world weariness
from the usual hells, ignored them all
all the hells, happy to be alive
and driving this car covered in bird shit.

 

 

Turn To Stone

or salt or a frog
a soldier, a college graduate
a girl leaning on the pay phone
at the truck stop
turn to pink pills
dart leagues, exploration
love in the muddy fields
crystals when properly clicked
can god-damn-look-at-you
you-are-healed!
turn to lesser skies, lesser need
lesser want
lesser bullets broken apart
sort the ashes
sort the pebbles
the fragments, the skulls
the skills, expectations, losses
long may you return my glance.

 

The Crooked Painting

I didn’t do good upstairs
the body lying in its nest
and the people kneeling
saying good bye
at the foot of the coffin

I never do too good
at these things
I walked down stairs
away—to a quiet spot

the funeral home was laid
out like the maze of the
underworld, past the coat closet
I found a room marked ‘private’
and opened the stubborn door

it was an old smoking lobby
mostly preserved
the way it had been back when
it was active, and comfort was different
I blew dust off leather chairs
and lamps made of gold-plated
knight’s helmets
the otherworldly ashtrays
were mortally empty
newer signs, warned someone,
not me—“no smoking”
that’s cute, it’s been saying
no smoking
since before I was born

It was very dim in there
I turned on an extra lamp
to make it less creepy

a crooked oil painting
leaning off kilter
caught my eye
it had two boats washed up
on the shore, wrapped in seaweed
little rowboats nestled together
the scene dark and somber
seagulls overhead like vultures
or I guess sea gulls do the same thing

I got pretty upset again looking
at the crooked painting with the rowboats
because of course, each empty rowboat
represented a person and the people
the boats represented were together, in death
but that wasn’t the same thing
that was happening, upstairs
upstairs was all separation
we weren’t all there yet, together
if we ever would be

I sat on the dusty leather couch
wishing I had a shiny red apple
or a pomegranate or an answer

the afterlife is a room marked ‘private’
you used to be able to smoke there
you can’t smoke there any more
so as I left the room
I straightened the crooked painting.

Donuts

Inspired by Cameron Pierce’s book, Die You Donut Bastards, the fine folks at Entropy magazine asked around about peeps favorite donuts. What follows here is a comprehensive list of the best donuts in the world. If you don’t agree with my donut that’s fine I’m not about to enter into a donut war with you or anything. But, check out the list.

click here

reading till i don’t fall asleep

I read James Claffey in the bathroom

and Ryder Collins, and Nabokav

not all of them on the toilet

I take long baths, you see

read Amy Hempel in the bath tub too

book is goddamn destroyed now

I read Bukowski, Love is a Dog

From Hell, while pissing

each piss, a poem, standing there

paperback in one hand

and you get the rest

and I read Len Kuntz that way

too. Pablo Neurda: also a pisser.

I read Seidlinger at work

sitting on top of a tower that boils

oil into gasoline, fire shooting

into the black starless sky

and inside a big metal drum

I read Heather Dorn, I was supposed

to be chipping concrete with a

pneumatic gun, but I wasn’t

I was reading and pretending

so be it, they had a night shift on the way

When I crashed my car, I was reading

Raymond Carver, the cop asked

“is it at least a good book?”

“sad book”

“goes well with this ticket then”

I was reading Meg Tuite on a narrow airplane

when the war zone turbulence started

the lights flashed out

and in the dark cabin

the family in front of me

started singing holy death bible hymns

we survived, the book ended good too

was reading Dustin Holland at

the doctor’s office when they couldn’t

figure out what was wrong with me

for the second and third time

fourth time I was reading Gay Degani

now I’m onto Robert Vaughan

they still don’t know what is wrong

with me

was reading merce rodoreda

time of the doves in the park

by my apartment when I was

on unemployment

have read Fante and Misti Rainwater

on state checks too, not to

mention Kevin Ridgeway

Denis Johnson and Frank Reardon

I like being unemployed and

being state subsidized to read

those books in that park

by my apartment

more of that please

read Kyle Muntz at the beach

got sunburn everywhere

except between my toes

and my nut sack

read Ben Loory to my friend’s

kid who couldn’t sleep

read Mik Everette on the subway

and missed my stop

two times, but that’s the good life

read seven of Aaron Dietz’s books

in a yellow chair next to my radiator

the radiator was chanting and

popping and making a fucking racket

occasionally I’d yell at it

“shut up shut up shut up!”

read In Watermelon Sugar again

last night, did that one again

in the bath tub again

I’m always doing that

In Watermelon Sugar and

the motherfucking bath tub

Richard Brautigan probably

had a good one

he brought into the bath tub too

one can only hope

and order more books, drunk.

New Short Story, “Forks, Knives, Spoons, So On”

just made coffee.

and today saw a bunch of brightly colored party balloons drift slowly over the oil refinery. at first we thought they were a helicopter. then, nope, just party balloons. drifting slowly.

Also:

new short story, Forks, Knives, Spoons, So On–about losing stuff, wives, forks, spoons, bath tub privileges, hope click here to read

Thank you for all the love. I’m over here loving you back and listening to Beethoven on my little record player.