Willie Smith


                I love my dinosaurs. They come from cereal boxes. Tower over my soldiers. Sometimes, if the dinosaurs get mad, they stomp the doughboys.
                It is a fact that infantry and thunderlizards are mortal enemies. I love how the guys, getting squished, scream, barely audible above triumphant reptile bugles. T Rexes prize the head, bursting with brains; often spit out the rest. A stegosaur, nuzzling gobbets at the Rex’s feet, hunts, for dessert, a scrotum or two to perfection rotted.
                By the time humanity resorts to the Bomb, pieces of battalion after battalion of G.I.’s litter the patio like a map of Mexico City bistrots. When down slams the Bomb, the dino’s vaporize to radioactivity taking millenia to decay. But, once again, a sizable portion of Earth’s real estate has been wrested from the foe.
                I grin at the dumb wisdom of my people – forever lusting for destruction to save their souls. Grin, too, at those poor dunderhead thunderlizards who can’t tell the Bomb from their asteroid.
                Me, if I saw dinosaurs, I’d take pictures. Sprint to Hollywood. Make a mint.


The disposal bellows opera.
Ballet the dishwasher swishes.
The vacuum’s crescendi
do swell orgasm.
Somebody elbows – on the phone
(clamped shoulder-to-cheek)
to the bank – the fridge open, while cracking
cans of laughter. TV dinner zings from the freezer,
slams into the micro. While the moon collects
data, digitizing haikus in a heartbeat, filling
blanks between thoughts – in superposition – with
brainfarts. The machine my master – like it or not – I
shall not want. So… to sow dispute, to blur the virtual,
to wrench the monkey… into the disposal a fist I jam –
blood-and-bone mix music to the
ear on a nose wing.
Because nobody now between
me alone and my clone no difference knows.

Willie Smith videos can be found at YouTube
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