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Michael T. Smith

This poem will hit on you


This poem will hit on you,

send an ebonite word to

wink and *smack* -- into your

lips, only to bounce back

to me,  snuggling closely.


To be “being,” this poem

will hit on you with a kindness:

It’s its Fach  --

stumbling back into

flirtatious reveries like oceanic tides.


It’s rafty (cold or bleak); it is

most writings you see

today.  And if beauty of words

could make you come…

to your senses, then --


Then this poem will hit on you--

you, who is not me.

Why would you keep yourself

away from everyone –

the everyman, the other other?


It will hit on you

when your bodice takes flight,

from off your body running,

when your body croons



And I scribble down a mantra

so profound,

but unfortunately one I can’t read

the next morning -- but I will ask you

what it means.


This poem will hit on you,

But -- but it won’t tell you what it wants.

It’d rather look at you through a prism

to see you in dots,

and use this broken image to --you know.

He Said, She Said:

A Conversation in a 98 Jeep


He said:

“You can come in,

but you have to replace what you break.”


She said:

“The outside just seems dreary now,

and not because of the weather.”


He said:

“Stop nagging me

about all things that are right.”


She said:

“Our bitterness is just an etude

to showcase our talents.”


He said:

“Honey, don’t --

honeyfuggle me into another agreement.”


She said:

“If this is home, why don’t we

have keys to the door anymore?”


He said:

“You left yourself in the motorcade

as you were going away.”


She said:

“I’m broken down,

which seems like a paean to the status quo.”


He said:

“It’s just a traffic jam

that makes you think that way.”

Walk Away, Walk Away


I thought he watched me walk away,

               ending meaning in a line,

and only found meaning in the


                             of these (hips --

                             just like only finding meaning in said line)


It was his one failing

Among all the others…



I made a vow never to get old.

I made an ode


that never did I deserve


to die.


My soul is still in high school,

fighting to hold back its girth.

I never had a meaning for breathing

until your lips gave birth.


Meanwhile, my narrative –


like a ditzy fly,

buzzing around this loft of my mind,

never wakes up; never will rise. 


Now, I'm scrubbing the house

with a suds of sympathy

to get the varnish of splinters

off our happy floor.


I asked the world to join me,

but I sit here in silent syncope --


I would not chaffer.

I would get excited

with vines up my arms.


But your feet made such rude remarks

to the wait-staff.

Michael T. Smith is an Assistant Professor of English who teaches both writing and film courses.  He has published over 150 pieces (poetry and prose) in over 80 different journals.  He loves to travel.

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