R. T. Smith
R. T. Smith Poems
|2.||A Local Doc, Over Rocky Lunchtime Bourbon, Speaks Of Barter And Hopeful Home Remedies||10/2/2014|
|3.||Confession In A Booth At The Hollow Log Lounge||10/2/2014|
|5.||Oxford Stroud Recollects Fishing With Electricity||10/2/2014|
|7.||Scavenging The Wall||10/2/2014|
|8.||Sheriff Matt Whitlock Confesses To A Lesson In Zen After Hours||10/2/2014|
|15.||Wade Seego Believes Soylent Green Is People||10/2/2014|
|17.||Twang Chic: Sam Buckhannon Explores The Latest Fashion||10/2/2014|
Comments about R. T. Smith
In Stetson and calico vest, spandex
and Calvin jeans, she was the best
at the bar. Does Gucci make range boots?
Hers were snakeskin with heels
like railroad spikes. The rest you could
guess: eyes the blue of West Texas yonder,
complexion like hot coffee with cream.
All night I gave her slack but kept
my dally-knot tight, hoping she'd like
the stories I could tell—drunk Indian
twins fighting with icepicks in Cheyenne,
Carolina moonshine, deer breaking open
watermelons out of crazy hunger.
Regular as breath she'd say, ...
We shall not all sleep,
but we shall all be changed.
Two nights he came to me, mute,
on fire, no dream. I woke to find
the window embered and fog filling
the willows. The third time
he was milder and early, his gray form
all ash. He said to me at bedside, kneeling,
"You must say your life to save it."