Poetry by Willie Smith


My best memory is beating off in the elevator.
Next, pissing in the machine.
Then the luncheon I spat on Rose,
the 55 year old retarded silverware sorter.
She kibbitzed while I slaved
unloading the machine and doing her job, too,
as I became progressively the butt of her cackling.
I also recall sneezing on the cup racks
when I had the flu
and it was necessary to work,
because I was broke and home was unheated.

But leaving semen in the elevator
was my best trick. Going up with clean
scalded pots and pans,
coming down with sticky plates and trashed cups –
didn’t make any difference,
once a day I’d inseminate
the movable floor
with a fix of dumb protest.

I stole food. I broke plates.
I eventually quit,
because it was either Rose or me –
and I was possessed of secretarial skills.

Willie Smith is deeply ashamed of being human. His work celebrates this horror. His novel OEDIPUS CADET (Black Heron Press) is available at amazon.com.