Snow On My Smith & Wesson

1 02 2010

(here’s a wetback manifestation of con-man logic
something grown in a closet, tiny buds
with a green frequency laden with resin
a hydro-sheen skunk calculus

most aliens land in the spring
so we’re safe for now
still traces of snow on my walk
and more expected

the thing about aliens
is they don’t like to shovel snow
they land in South America this time of year
where it is summer

My blender is a forty-five Smith & Wesson
I can kill you with a smoothie
and I can mix the lexicon
with ‘lectricity limbered

fingers, can press buttons
pull triggers
or poke out eyes

oh yes, the fingers

Trane was an alien
or at least they said he was
he played tenor Smith & Wesson
made your skeleton shake
when rock n roll was just a gleam
in Chuck Berry’s eye

I play a Smith & Wesson guitar
it fits in a secret holster, you can barely see it
but when I crank it up
lika stevie vaughn stetson improv
lectric magination
going haywire into a
three ton Marshall amp
my guitar weeps
but not gently
into that bad bad night

when a guitar bleeds it turns white
you might think it would be blue
lika blue steel Smith & Wesson
but it’s white as the highlight
on the cheekbone of a painting in wire

Dvorjackoff and pagannini pops his strings
one by one for the crowd
donno yoyo ma from yo mama
thought gershwin was a bicycle
and Showpenhower was a scientist

The Fiddler on the griddle dances
merry as hot grease and water
I’m going Bach to my Smith & Wesson

Oil on my Smith & Wesson
rain on my wet Stetson
I’m snortin’ Stravinski
lika pie on a melody ride

take it down to the street for awhile
walk the dog
cop a bag
cap a cop or
do a dance on the corner

Get that Dillinger look in your eye.

When I leave my Smith & Wesson at home
I always take my Thompson. ‘Specially
when I go to the movies
Chaplin on the screen, Chopin in the piano

The balcony is full of FBI’s, I know it
it’s only a matter of time
and the statutory rape of limitations
Shakespeare would have never guessed it

I always found the reduction reaction to be more
useful than the mere reflux. All you need is to lose
that oxygen atom and you’re in the money.
Communists don’t understand this.

Even less do monarchists and stenographers
a pirate is your only hope
the jolly roger is the one thing a real
revolutionary understands.

If I mess with your Mercedes
or if flint is my suspicion
and I am chronic as the alphabet
a wiggy hirsute psychologist
a Wesson oil piano man
grumpy from a nap without medication
no sex in my jazz teaspoon
a collection of rancid ancestors
with names like Smith and Jones
rampant champions of the Medium
limp simpletons on Advil and 7-11
rock band nazis dripping semen
like lilacs and aftershave mania

the armadillos in texas have ray guns
and they chatter in dactyls and
seven layered nocturnal iambs
but at night there is always the campfire

I have a Trotsky headache
contemplating my own assassination
over a little dispute with Rasputin
my communism ain’t true Republican
I died one time but soon got over it.
Where was your Smith & Wesson, Leon?

Me and Smith & Wesson
were in Deep Ellum one night
just south of Club Dada
and above the Lizard Lounge
all the cops wear blue suede
and Blind Lemon laughs when
the wind blows down
Commerce and Main
but you hear it most on Elm

Smith said to Wesson one day,
“Let’s make an instrument to keep the peace
it will be a force for freedom and liberty.”
blue steel for democracy

she let the lettuce out
lettuce being a relative of the poppy
iceberg lettuce with a head
big as a bowling ball

oh yes, the head had a mind of it’s own
complex as an artichoke with fringes
she asked the head about its religion
and when it answered
she drew her Smith & Wesson

the gun bled with sin
Smith & Wesson sitting in
like a nuance cry
a saxophone slide
the moment is dry

the dream schism renegade
not noxious forbearing
I’m glaring down the rabbit wholeness
a hopeless proximity of love and admiration

daft in love and wondering like a dream
the prescription is too weak
my longing for you can’t speak

the snow has begun
they say no stop till Monday
I sat a case of beer outside my door
to cool, let god handle my ‘lectric bill

did I hear someone say Iscariot?
let god handle him too
The S & W is a good gun
but it won’t fire across the State line

not in the snow

White is the color you cannot see
even doves have black eyes
the muzzle flash from a Smith & Wesson
is white as the doorbell to eternity
White is the color you cannot see.

You never hear the shot that kills you
so the dead say and they should know
with bullet chambered, my fate encumbered
I’ll take death by snow

The sheets are white
they render my rude instrument
pull the trigger
my love for you
is a pristine weapon under snow

out there where the huskies go
there is visible respiration
even though it is the white yoga
of dog breath and effort just to live

they ain’t no mo eskimos
living in houses of ice
they have double wides
and the blubber comes in cans

Automatics don’t work above
the Art-ic Circle
You need a revolver there
A Smith & Wesson

there’s cream in the cemetery
Cecil B. DeMill and Jean Harlow
in those vaults like marble condos
my S&W cracks and echoes
in the halls of the mausoleum
any eskimo knows that igloo ice
is warmer than polar breath
but the tomb is even colder
than white.

All genes should be Harlow’s
the mother bee of blondness
and blue-eyed rose lips
eyes as blue as the steel
on the barrel of a .45

Gene and Emmet Kelly
had common jeans and baggy pants
and when I watch them dance
or try to sweep the spotlight
it’s clear as a shot from a gun
or a perfect rhyme
comedy trumps poetry every time

now the snow like projectile nerf bullets
from the barrel of heavens Smith & Wesson
tons of white yearning moisture
frozen as a lilly tormented by cold

snow bleaches the land
lika SmithinWesson in drag
a lethal bride portrayed
the sky is earnest and gray
and the flakes move
like cartridges of ice
a fatal, frigid flow

a gun from heaven
is shooting angel flakes
white as a virgin on canvass
the naked trees sketch
fractal designs on the
Chiaroscuro sky

my alibis are ballistic
more like hard taps
than the old soft excuse
time has come the walrus bled
and arctic talk on raw fishes
makes me know
that you have to feed the polar bears
or they will eat you and
spit the grip of your Smith & Wesson.




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