Monday, May 28, 2012

NOTHING DOING sample

Sample of Uncle Willie reading from recently released story collection NOTHING DOING: www.youtube.com/wsmith49 .

Sunday, January 29, 2012

SEATTLE SNOW

Four inches of the white stuff paralyze Jet City!



NAME FOR MYSELF


Go for a walk in the snow.
Find the bike trail. Crunch
my prints into the smooth glare.
Duck, after a mile or so,
behind a fir. Unzip three layers.
Sign, with the willie pen, my name.
Hear the hiss. Watch the steam. Smell
the coffee. Radio claimed,
thanks to coming rain,
all by tomorrow melted.

Zip back up.
Back on the trail.
Trudge another mile or so
through the driven snow. 


   

Thursday, January 19, 2012

THE END OF JOY

FIRST OLD FLAME TO DIE


     I took her in the ass because she asked me to. And because I was curious, actually enjoyed the novelty. As did – or so it seemed – she. Her way of asking: “Ever put this in a woman’s ass?”
     I cleared my throat. Let a few seconds drift, as if reflecting… “Once or twice.”
     She shrugged, disappointment evident; she obviously eager to deflower. I should have lied. Given her the triumph.
     Today I learn she died six months ago. Cancer. Fifty-six. All those cigarettes. All that love. But now she has taken, at least in one sense, my virginity; as I take the news up the ass of my heart. 

Sunday, January 15, 2012

JOY WAR

JOY WAR



     Joy wore see-through – nipples visible as bulls in china rubble. Throughout the war, Joy wore see-through.
      True to an arrow. Honest with a sling. Ducks wholly in a row. She wore on her finger a lingering of the onions she kissed enough to mince in her sleep; as the war wore on.
     I round the point. The wind tears tears from the eye. So Joy sews sorrow  borrowed from the dead.
     Joy wails through the wind: Come inside, now you see through. Then whispers: The grass so greener on the suicide.
     Joy combats bats; daubs cheek to tongue. Claws till the flying mice dash echoes in a mirrored cell, to sell the flip of their flop. Joy goes to bat for going bats for the euphoria of the sheer hell of swing.
     Joy springs well-versed in universe. Because before, when justice on a tear tore, her heart ran just ice; for everywhere Joy’s heart wears in the blood war.
     The world was indeed done in a day; done in and done in a day. But like the drunk of Noah has no end, no point; only joy; and the war wore on; and on wore the war, when Joy wore see-through.

Thursday, January 12, 2012

The Sex Of Joy

People tend to call this my "sailing" poem. Most of my poems sail straight into the waste can, sometimes making a brief stopover at the canary cage. But his one has stuck with me for almost half a century now. It's posted in various places on the net. First appeared in print in LOON magazine in 1978:



BACK HOME



We sit crosslegged in the tub.
We’ve been three days sailing on the Sound
and are pleasantly exhausted.
I soap my face
and Joy begins shaving me.
It takes all the concentration
I can muster to keep from smiling
so she can shave around my lip.
Remembering the low swift boat
rolling over the waves
I watch Joy’s brown eyes as
they focus on the small swipes
that leave my face clean and smooth.
I keep my lips even,
but her smile rises and fades
with every pass of the blade.

Wednesday, January 11, 2012

LETTER TO MY THIRD EX

My alphabet sports three ex's. Joy was by far the most remarkable, as well as the live-with lover I spent the least time with. Let's put her in the fucklight here for a couple days. Fear not: the wench is dead, even though it was in this same country:




LETTER TO MY THIRD EX



     Sitting in this flop with a picture of you, a chicken pot pie, gallon of Gallo and little else; watching cracks on the wall; hoarse cough nextdoor, the oldfart damn near dead from WWI wounds, dead wives, Bugler and even cheaper wine than I drink; upstairs the nineteen year old Krishna freak without a dime and lacking a brain, chanting muffled through the floor, which is my ceiling, plaster praying to be left alone and let fall and goddamn skidroad god letting the ceiling/floor have its way through slow pain, I love you, but understand why I left.
     It’s hot here. One jammed window and it looks out five feet onto the brick of a sooty warehouse. Tattered oilcloth shade. Stink of gas now tinted with heating potpie. Steamheat permanently high. Landlady same.
     She offers me an extra blanket whenever I pass her shadowy desk in the lobby. She once had a wino freeze to death, she says, and is terrified of death and all its concomitant responsibilities. Fusty creature, sticky booze on her lips.
     No, I have not fucked her yet. Nor anything else. Still jack off to your picture, or sometimes simply jingle the change in my pocket.
     Here the ceiling is high and obscure. Lamp by my creaky bed the only light. Forty watts of consolation. Still, some previous pervert managed to get way up and scrawl with lipstick or blood or beetshit a poem concerning the necessity of leaving your jane to go to war when your country has gotten into hot water. Sonofabitch even rhymes: war/whore, jane/pain, water/ ought to.
     Soon the pot pie will be hot. I plan to eat it with a plastic fork. I am leaving you the silverware. I think it was yours anyway. All the rest is yours, too, and this letter. Send along another picture. I left because there was no longer any poetry to be found.    

Tuesday, January 10, 2012

JUST ANOTHER HARDON POEM

LATE MARCH TWILIGHT


Sue and me
on the ornamental cherry tree’s lower
swaying branches, fraught and
delicate with white blossoms, her chin
on my knee, a hardon
in my corduroy pants under her hand’s
pleasant tease.
Both our smiles
easy and slight.
Few words
pass; a breeze half
obliterates us among blossoms
and blossomy rustlings.

Monday, January 9, 2012

16MM VENUS

Back in the 70s, when pterodactyls blotted the sky and Amazon meant a one-titted female warrior, there were, briefly, three unchallenged queens of porn, a Hecate-Artemis-Isis vaginal triumvirate, who dominated the scene in both 35MM high-production and 16MM loop: Abigail Clayton, Annette Haven and Leslie Bovee. Many a ganglion I wore into the back of my right hand furiously jerking to inner visualizations of these cinematic sisters of mercy. Yesterday I gave henna-ed Annette my best shot. Now here's one for the perhaps least well-known of the Titillating Trio, Abigail "The Blowing Blonde" Clayton:




16MM VENUS 1973



     She comes up out of the sea and she is all blond – she has lost her bikini; the shark of her smile took it. She reaches back. Wrings yellow hair in a wet mass. She wants to come over, primp, turn around – pray her ass be kissed.
     Her eyes glint sea-green. Her breasts float large and gently sloped as distant breakers; nipples buoys; her bush surf white.
     She straddles the screen. Between the crack of her butt you glimpse a sunsquint; close eyes to sniff the vision burst.
     Your throat detects encircling cigarettes and bad cigars, old coats, stale popcorn; knees cracking, torn leather seats creaking…
     Open the eyes – to catch a last sneer, as she steers her posterior down over the mouth of the camera; while against the voice-box an unspittable lump has grown.
     She is all dark in the water you breathe.
 

Sunday, January 8, 2012

THE PORNO STAR

No day should be allowed to slip by unfucked. Here's my rut for the day:


THE PORNO STAR

                 For Annette Haven

In sheer blouse,
high heels, nylons and
skimpy skirt disclosing
the moving wonder of her thighs,
she shakes henna hair
over a shoulder
and gets into the black chrome Lincoln
that drives off

to flash up to a California mansion.
The chauffeur with so much class opens the door,
before she swings out and the sun
spits her sunglasses and her lipstick
and she shakes
henna hair and walks
toward the mansion and the camera
adores her nylons
as high heels click on sun-drenched pavement.

And inside that lovely California mansion, surrounded by eucalyptus
and Norman Rockwell caricatures and a high oak-panelled high high ceiling,
clothes gone, disappeared in a heap, gone somewhere off stage –
totally nude, with a tiny little gold chain
around her waist and red polish on her toenails
and purple polish on her fingernails,
she fingers herself in a mirror
while the audience, hand in pants,
bogs in lust never wanted ended
dead.