Willie Smith

Post image for Willie Smith

by Ian on December 7, 2010

Willie Smith is deeply ashamed of being human. His work celebrates this horror. A few years back his novella Oedipus Cadet was selected for the Concerned Lifers book club at Monroe State Penitentiary. These are fellas in for life without possibility of parole. Willie felt quite at home discussing his work in the profoundest bowels of the pen seated around a table of convicted mass murderers. You are invited to see Willie further embarrass himself here: www.youtube.com/wsmith49

Go Buy It

Media urges me to buy it.
All my friends tell me to buy it.
People at work insist I buy it.
So I decide to go out
and buy it.
Take along my AK.
Couple hundred hollow points.
Because after all what is the point?
Take along a crowd a thought –
we can all buy it together.

I drive to the store. Hop out. Duck
in. Inside cluster scores
of that social insect humanity.
Just call me Raid. Dig my
can. Read the label. Watch me spray.
See antennas, iPods, glasses twitch.
If you duck lucky, make it out
before I train on you my sights,
make the world know
I just came down to buy it.

And if I be sick,
then I must act thus.
Let’s make a play –
on words playing bullets
from my automatic mouth.
Take this pain. Take that death.
Carry in your head forever film
of the spatter to prove
while I breathe I still do not yet
buy it.

Philadelphia Love

She was fat as a pimple,
dumb as scum on the Susquehanna;
but no ordinary Philly whore:
she was a drunk dirty lady
from down in lower Darby,
a stinko queen who had,
or one of her sisters,
been on the scene since the beginning of sex.

I creaked up the wood stairs
and swung open the hard-sprung door
into the hallway and the door banged behind
and left me in the dank stink
of fried eggs and cat piss. Ambled down
the butt-scarred hallway
to the number the man sold.
Brushed dust off the knocker
and banged. She waited for the word;
I said it, went in; she kicked over a gin bottle
with a flat grin and etiquette evaporated
as we rolled on the floor like boa-constricted sweathogs.

She was no ordinary Philly whore,
she was a fat dirty lady
from down in lower Darby,
simple as a pimple, ugly as a bug
in a wino’s beard, dumb as
scum on the Susquehanna,
but sexy as that Lexington shot:
you heard convulsing 400 pounds
round the world
that night for ten dollars we made meat sing.

Fall Piece

Let free fall, even from grace, fall into whatever place. But let me not short fall…

Fall out of bed. Drag myself to the phone. Call in dead. Just dead. Crawl back to bed.

But the dream of… won’t… falling… let… endlessly… me back in. Lie awake spread-eagle gawking at the ceiling. Aching to – since can’t fall asleep – into the popcorn fall.

Bored with clinging to the sheets, anyway dump time, jump up. Perform the usual.

Head, head full of toast and coffee, inside jogging togs, for the bridge. Not so much to jump as into gravity’s arms lean. Till, barring quantum freak, over the railing fall. Wailing on the whoosh down curses to re-enter the falling dream.

Falls out I run into a babe just my age.

She too called in dead. Headed for that last long stare down. Begging to – through fall air – fall. We hit it off, gasping to each other, pounding across the bridge, up to her place.

Fall into the sack – full of sweaty victory over death and the insanity of tedium. Then fall, over ensuing cigarettes (neither a health freak, both run to build resistance for further abuse), in love.

Lie awake giggling at the ceiling smoke for the wedding. Bungee off the bridge. Barrel over Niagara. Skydive with a fallen priest.

As the laughter thins, and silence falls, over onto me she rolls. At it again we start.

Start awake. This time for good. So the clutter of my room reassures with guillotine precision: slept in; slept too much; overslept.

Fall out of bed. Crawl to the phone. Call to cancel the first call they seem never to have received, but are unhappy anyway.

“Whatever,” I cough into the mouthpiece. “I’m still dead. I’ll just be a little late.”

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