Gettin' the Job Done
TOOLSBy GC SMITHTools, one needs good ones in the workshopbut no less they are must haves for the kitchenone can’t make a table without saws and hammersor good knives and pots and pans for a pasta-fazoole Nothing compares to my kitchen knivesWusthof brand of finest Soligen steelthey make short work of cooking tasksslicing, dicing, paring, chopping, carvingThen there are my Lodge cast iron potsand sauté pans first class all clad stainlessa great big stewpot for making yummy stuffand odd and end pots and pans for this and thatMe I live with tools for all my workwoodworking

Of Time and Tide
Someday, When Day is DoneBy GC SMITHPour the good whiskey,tap a barrel of beer,lay out a spread ofbaked meats and breadsShove my box in a corner,dance on until dawn;know I'm doing fineas I wander the cosmosListen to old boy's storiesand tell some of your own;there no baloney to make up'cause we did it togetherRelax dear and enjoythis gathering of folkhere ‘cause they're friendswho came for a last word I've lived me a full lifebut now day is done,don't give way to sadnessremember all that we hadThe kids that we raised,

sleep disturbia
Fevre DreamBy GC SMITHI'm fractured tulips stomped flat by spry giraffes. My Kentucky bourbon dyed dark chocolate liver screeches enough, damn you. Sociopathic dinner parties, they'll yet do me in. Flippant maidens dab my spitttle with sanitary napkins and giggle. I see red. But then the vague clouds by the sea, shiny beacons, beckon supine me. Cedar trees denser than bamboo thickets block my progress toward the light saving my ass from unseen, but none-the-less deadly succulent flytraps. Perhaps, if I believed in a higher being a twelve step program could be considered. But I don't. I won't. I'll simply hope for rescue by an empathitic emu as a petulant p

Three Poems
ComesBy GC SMITHFrom opaque mistslight rustling,honeyed ambrosiabreath in, reach outtouch life’s exquisite mysteryCome on, honeyBy GC SMITHHey babetouch mewhile I tell youeverythingkiss meI’ll inhale youwhile we dowhat we willdoToo FastBy GC SMITHTopsy-turvyhurtlinglife acceleratesdammit

With it, or maybe not
Hip I Be?By GC SmithWriting from the hip, unbuttoning my lip. Gets me to say outrageous things like #@^%***#&&!!! But that has all been said before. So often said it now does bore. It loses punch this #@^%***#&&!!!, like writing interminably about vampires or of sex. There are only so many ways to kiss a neck. Only so many ways to draw blood. And so it is wiith sex in poetry or prose. There are only so many orifices to poke before sex becomes so ho-hum dreary. Just like the smutty #@^%***#&&!!!. Uttered from the lips of a boor who would be hip. But ain't.