Two poems by Willie Smith

Frisbee Lines

     If I could be a frisbee and you could be a palm, if I could be a frisbee and you could be a wrist – life could be a breeze.

     If I could be a bike seat, and you could be you, we could wheel off across the dew to view the dawn from our perch – fish away the rest of the day with perchance the backside of my tongue.

     If I could be a bumblebee jazzing a tulip’s throat, you could be a dahlia with the sapphire blues; aborigine blowing virus through insect.

     If I could be a gun you could fire me like a boss, turn me like a knob, like Apollo a Daphne, give me a job in your garden hung in the gallery.

     If I could be a slave, you could be the galley; together we could work to be free; because to work together is to be free.

     If I could be a star, the sun could spin you in. If I could be a nut, you could be a shell on the shore.

     If I could be a frisbee, you could be a Claymore, if I could be a mine.

     If I could be a mine, you could be a you, do could be a do, done up like a

son of a gun forever on the make.

     If I could be hyperbole – for one instant be a snit of a saint – you could be a frisbee. 

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A New Way Out

      She rants and she rants at the entrance to a trance. She waits for the craven raven to cease to rave high in the pine – flushed off the corpse by her hurry.

     Then she goes into it – to intuit a new way out.

     And in that night, inside that cave, beyond the rot, longer than the hunger, heavier than the lust, she knows me to be, by the nose, she – she bare, she bear, she bang, she male, she yang; she rants, she rants at the entrance to a trance.

     I walk down the street. I feel completely neat. I don’t need to be stirred – I go into it to intuit firefly toes – because I’m already crazy wild bugs, all but sewn into a shroud, lightning bug caught in a web; still sending into the still humid night the remorselessness of gut glow, of chartreuse code, of dash and dot in the riptide blood calling rebels in the hills.

     And there is no rebel she never ranted at the entrance to a trance.

     I walk down the street. I feel completely neat. I don’t need to be mixed. I feel all meat electrically expressed, kneaded anew from the dough of a lewd mildewed dead dude who is me – howling and raving a new way out.

     She rants, she rants at the entrance.    

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Author bio: 

Born in Greenbelt, Maryland. Raised in Alexandria, Virginia. Colleged in

Portland,Oregon. Playing in Seattle, Washington, since early July of 1976, a jovial end game with death. His recent story collection is NOTHING DOING, Honest Publishing.