The Absence of Analog

Over the last year, I’ve stopped keeping an analog journal for the first time in my life. It has, mostly, to do with my lack of a work/life balance, the absence of a good desk in my small NYC apartment, and free time. Still – I miss it.

Here are some old images from my journaling days:

I have over 45 journals of my writings. They are hidden in boxes and will probably be discovered after I pass. I don’t know what’s in most of them. I do know I keep important things written down. I chronicle the things that matter to me. I’ve moved to the digital realm but I miss the feeling of really writing. It cleans out the soul. I need to get in the practice of it again.

She Felt He by George G Smith Jr

she felt he
better then the rest
and when
chiseled chest pressed to breast
paused
but brought her to the crest
and peak
as she was peaking
and speaking
words like no other
with this lover

he felt she
warmer than before
bodies moving pressed up
locked door
clothes thrown to the floor
and then
the rhythm and squeaking
ostinato in their pattern
lovely in their rest
she felt he twist tied in physical contest
that both shall win

She felt he
grow thick with resolution
to solve with solution
all the complexities that lie within
and each movement, a fire’s risen
and birthed
like flame igniting and fighting
the air to breathe

he felt she
as they grew to believe
that each moment
each thrust
each physical manifestation of love and trust
grew
to illustrate all they knew
and nothing they don’t know

she felt he
and he felt she
and together they bathed in the glow.

(c) George G Smith Jr

Fairly a Fairy Tale by George Smith

I’m fairly a fairy tale
I’m hardly a verse
I’m panic stricken caffeine chaos
That’s never rehearsed

I’m a writer without words
A poem without a tongue
I’m lovely lyrical layering
I am one

I am drugged audience clinging
To sullen scotch breathed men
And while all artists need loneliness
I’m merely writing words with a pen

I’m the refuge of the streets
With steam filled orgy eyes
I am lust filled and lividly
I am art, marginalized

I am incoherent laughter
I am unspoken abuse
There is just an unwritten letter
That act’s as my muse

I am talent wasted daily
Motionless and dry
I am dark and disconcerting
Ocean waves in July

(c) George G Smith Jr