The Art of Prayer

Dreams still come true in the land of heart’s ash.
During the day, we all wear halos made of zen,
And the angels sing of paradise.
When the lyricist fashions art with a pen,
Too often, the intention does not ripple like the words of the wise.

To not one’s surprise, practice and talent go hand in hand.
Rose bushes line the concrete walking path.
At night, moonlight flood paradise gardens.
Holographic butterflies map eternity
With a mere flap of their wings.

All is not as it seems when it comes to these creatures.
Their features glisten in twilight times.
Their features glisten with these rhymes.
Times are a’changing,
Life needs some orchestrating.
What happened to the flair of the debonair?
Where is the sanctity of the comedic situation?

God isn’t dead but inspiration just may be.

Why isn’t most everything seen as Heaven sent?
Seems to me, this awareness lies across the river Styx.
For all misgivings, may saintly creatures repent.
Where there is paucity, let undulant beauty find its place,
For the immaculate beauty of the world will never be erased.

Here I stand, comfortable and face to face with the divine.
Devoid of anxiety and fears, I pen this final line.

With laud,
Sean M. Smith



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…