Here’s to High Sex

Violet rose bushes line the concrete walking path.
At night, the orangish-white southern moonlight floods the gardens of paradise.
With a mere flap of their wings, holomorphic butterflies map eternities’s seashell lined shores where the twilight times never end.

Ahhhh, to smell the sweet sanctity of chaos.

Dreams still come true in the land of my heart’s seemingly infinite ashing.
During the day, we all wear halos made of zen,
And the angels, well, they sing of sonnets, sunshine, and truth.
When a lyricist fashions art with a pen,
Intention inevitably ripples like the words of the wise.

Surprise! All is not as it seems when it comes to these creatures and their ardent epidermises.
The ever so gentle buttetfly wings glisten in time with these rhymes.

We need to stay on the up and up as the prophets of creative tomorrows.
Life needs some orchestrating, dontcha know.

Stay true to your hearts flames and the flair of the debonair?

Why isn’t most everything seen as Heaven sent?

For all misgivings, may saintly creatures repent.
Where there speech is lacking, may absolute and beauteous felicity find its place, for the immaculate, transcendental beauty of the world will never be erased nor will the smitten sunshine saints of the four seasons be silenced.

Here I stand, comfortable and face to face with the divine, devoid of any purpose other than to formalize the sublime.



Sunshine and silhouettes
Rain puddles and mock ballet
Pity prancing is not begging

Sonic ocean sounds of love
Begging for no more beached whales.

Mother moon motivated to shine.
Most beautiful day
Transformed into starlit empire

Both north and south American night.

Goodnight East Coast
Enjoy Midwest
West coast keep boarding

May every family feel and be one

Moonlight-sunlight oceans that breathe
With gills and not pills

May flood us once more
With Gods as of beacons
And not guns as our quantum solace

Let us all praise the starlight’s armamentarium.

On Love

When the end of my days arrives,
I will say whom I love most….

I will willingly whoosh free
And whisper it through the celestial waves
And frequencies to every last bit of soul
In the cosmic orbits we call our universe.

And, they will have chosen me every day
Like I choose Perpetual Groove’s
First set of Wakarusa 2012…
Before the bottled waters were everywhere.

I blame Pretty Lights.
And honestly, I hope it is just…
You, me, and God…

No not gods or idols…
It certainly won’t be a theory.
I hope it is the law of balance
That regulate the scales of justice.

You see, there is nothing wrong with me.

On the contrary,

I am intentionally a sunshine ferry,
a steamboat that makes you smile,
because I am in love with you and only you.

No!  This is not about my left hand.

Inasmuch, what’s good with you Baby.
Where have you felt the most alive?
And, who were you with?
Can I meet them?
Can I fall in love with you?

I know you won’t break my heart…
Yet all to often I let myself cry alone
By myself in fickle exacting sighs.

Can wait to spy your solar flare
Like eyes,

With bravado, vehemence, vivacity,
Sean Matthew Smith

Circumnavigation of America’s Psyche

Lack of a shared romance
Shirked by not mistresses
A few friends startle me with their…

I do hate this place

Aching like a breaking

Nauseous from all of the endings
Understating melancholiacs, or fascinations
Everything is vapid and torpid
Something is not always better than


Trying not to cry in the library
Listening to Frank Ocean Singles
I cease to give a fuck about anything

Except poetry

Somewhat failing a Master’s program in mathematics,
Utterly incurious about the nature of didactics
All there is to do is live and breathe tobacco.

Laying in bed–sometimes crying–for weeks,
All I long to do is sing in dance in the streets.

Apparently though, anti-productivity is not the capitalist ideal.

Fucking Adam Smith
in the ass with a strap on
That she will never use on me
My alternative universe dream wife whom I call Margaret
though disparaging and exacting
Knows more about the preservation of Life on Earth
Than most any economist to ever exist.

If you don’t believe me, just look up the U.S. debt clock
Truth is, I am a twenty three year old male
With pale skin and a disposition for both elegance and madness

Madame Margaret merely promotes the dream economy
for the sublime is a history, a future, and a totality
Of the innocent infinitude of carousels and spirituality.

Shine on You Crazy Diamond

Somewhere in the land of rotting Granny Smiths
There was a sagacious man, my great grandfather.
Mayor of an island in Croatia, migrated to America.
At least he lived in the Northeast where they don’t starve
the poor and the blacks and the immigrants and the criminals.

But here I am in Alabama–too far away from my family,
friends, snow, and mountains–depressed and America.

And, you know what…

I’m still…